


I've had a love of my own

by Ominous



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: I had to add that for chapter 3/4, I promise, Interviews, M/M, Memories, Mild Angst, OCs - Freeform, Post-Canon, Retirement, andrew is gone but not in neil's memories, dont let the tag fool you this fic is very soft, exploration of andreil's life post canon, extra cheesy romance, he just remembers all the good cheesy times, im soft, im sorry, neil misses the love of his life, old man neil, post pro careers, they have minor roles, this is the neil can't shut up about andrew fic, u know how it be, very cranky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ominous/pseuds/Ominous
Summary: Despite everything Neil could’ve imagined for his life, he never thought he’d be here, finally giving the world the interview they’ve always wanted.It’s been decades, but even with his numerous accolades and sports wins, he finds that they’re the least important thing about his life.Neil can’t help but laugh. Andrew would be so annoyed if he were here.Of course, Neil only wants to talk about him, and the life they spent together.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 210
Kudos: 255





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eyy back at it with something I thought I'd never do again: multichapter fic! I got hit with a punch of inspiration for this so I'm really happy to share it! The main inspiration for this is the seven husbands of evelyn hugo so if you haven't read that, please do! It's a lovely book and made me FEEL. Anyways, as I said in the tags I really don't do heavy angst so apart from the general theme this is going to be really romantic I SWEAR. Just an overall exploration of andreil post canon that I've wanted to do for a while ^^ I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Big thanks to [EmeraldWaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaves/pseuds/EmeraldWaves) and [nightquills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquills/works) for reading this over and encouraging me to post!

Neil pricks himself on the old Palmetto pin as he fixes it to his collar, jabbing the same spot on his thumb he hit just a week before.

He hardly winces at the feeling these days, and for a long time, Matt joked about how he really couldn't go a day without attracting some form of violence. Neil smiles at the thought, because it's far from the truth. He stands by the claim he never asked for fights, simply had no problem finishing them.

 _"You mean letting me finish them,"_ Andrew would quip, and they'd go back and forth all over again in a never-ending argument. It's so never-ending, Neil goes through the motions of it even now, however many decades later.

This pin tends to start it, since it's the only remotely dangerous thing he owns now. The orange is still bright and obnoxious, with criss crossing Exy racquets in a bright white. He's memorized the raised edges, tilted from old age. The once silver backing has rust spots, but no one ever sees that part. It has its reputation intact, and Neil smiles sardonically.

It's not the only thing that's been worn down, but he likes to think he doesn't look as bad as he could too. Laughing at his own joke, he taps the pin lightly. It's apparently vintage now, according to Allison, since the new Palmetto merch has drifted into neon territory.

Neil is glad he kept his own. It's especially important today, he thinks, that he shows as much fondness for the past as possible. Though, it's not for his sake. His room is nothing but littered with the tokens of the past.

Sighing, he stares fondly out across the living room, the walls haphazardly decorated with old, signed jerseys his friends used to wear. He has one from each of their old teams, but picked his favorites to go up on the wall. The rest sit in storage, ready to be auctioned off whenever he decides living is too much of a chore. Above the mantle, Andrew's racquet from his last team hangs in a shadow box. Then below it, framed pictures which Neil tries to rotate as best he can, some of them shitty ones converted from his phone camera. Mostly, they're of his Foxes at various points in their lives. The only two photos which stay the same are the one he took with Andrew and Kevin at the Olympics, and the snapshot of him and Andrew at the airport in his first year at Palmetto.

If he had to catalog the room, that would barely scratch the surface. He's pages away from mentioning Nicky's terribly made mugs, Betsy's first editions, and cookie tins filled with postcards Katelyn and Aaron sent twenty years ago.

Most of the time, the untidy collection of junk surrounding him is a comfort. It makes the small apartment feel like home, or as close as he can get when he's by himself. He swears some of the items still carry the unique scents of grass stains and floor polish, or Allison's perfume and the glitter glue from Dan and Matt's kids.

When that fails him, the candle he has in every room does the trick to fill in the blanks. Andrew used the same scent for over half their life together: breakfast pancakes. It's sickly sweet and stains the furniture, and Neil loves nothing more than to bury his face in the cushions after a day of having them lit.

These are the things that ground him, that keep him in place, but today he feels fidgety for the first time in years. He shouldn't be, he thinks, laughing to himself. He planned this after all, it's just...

Well, he's never been the best at talking to people.

There's a knock at his door, and the cuckoo clock on the wall (shockingly, that one is his fault) tells him it's right on schedule. Neil sighs, slipping his feet into the white slippers beneath him. "Come in, Sydney."

The nurse on his floor opens the door to his apartment with a smile, too fresh faced and early for this time of day. She’s young, and she's always been a bit cheery for his taste, but she reminds him of Katelyn and he allows it. In the last few years, when Andrew's migraines prevented him from reading, she'd bring him audiobook gift cards.

She smiles bright, and he gives her that look for her to cut it out. At this point, she's less put off by it and more amused. He only tells her to save the smiles because if she doesn't she'll have wrinkles like him years from now. He hates how much he sounds like Allison.

Neil hardly looks in the mirror anymore, but this morning he put in _some_ effort. He looks as perpetually tired as he always looked back in the day, except now his eye bags are accompanied by wrinkles that form their own topographical map on his face.

At least he didn't lose all his hair.

The only thing is his blue eyes are as piercing as ever, so coupled with the grandpa look, he's quite intimidating. Not that he needs to be, but it's nice to feel a little capable when he can barely walk by himself anymore.

"Morning, Mr. Josten," Sydney greets, untucking the wheelchair from behind the door and pushing it over to him. He makes sure to grab Andrew's favorite crochet blanket. He hates messing with it, but he thinks the smell of nicotine it carries will help him today. Refresh his memory.

Neil grumbles, but lets her help him into the chair. He has on his good lounge pants, without holes, and his old Palmetto sweater. "I told you years ago I hate being called that."

"Because it makes you feel old," she jabs, teasing lightly. Even still, she's gentle when she places the blanket over his lap and hands him his glasses. "I have to keep you in line somehow."

"Ha-ha."

As she wheels him out of his room, he starts fidgeting again. He's used to exploring the luxury nursing home on his own time, not because he has somewhere to be. He hasn't had somewhere to be since...well, he hates thinking about that, lest he run into a memory that hurts more than helps.

Today isn't the day for that.

Some other, more able-bodied residents pass by him on foot, waving amicably and knowing better than to expect a wave back. Shockingly, he's well liked here, probably because he doesn't have rowdy grandkids who break the peace. Plus, he's pretty sure some of them are old fans.

Sydney leans down as they pass through the common area and into one of the meeting rooms, the spotless linoleum floor throwing him off as usual. He never would've picked a place so expensive and fancy for himself, but Andrew was always someone with classy tastes. "Ready for today?"

At the reminder, Neil wrings his fingers together. Not advised by his doctor, but fuck that guy. "As ready as I'll ever be," he says, glaring at the glass doors ahead. Sydney laughs, placing him at the end of a large table. The meeting room creeps him out, since it's mostly used for family meetings or will planning appointments. Sound proof, silent.

"Oh hush, you're a famous athlete, I'm sure you've faced worse," she chides, pouring him a glass of water without any ice. Because he's a fiend. Neil rolls his eyes; she has no idea. He's threatened countless reporters before for stepping even a toe out of line, but some recent college grads from an indie publication are making him sweat more than an Exy game. Sydney makes a show of whispering behind her hand. "Besides, I heard from Gabe at the front desk they look _terrified_ , so go easy on them, yes? Can't have another cafeteria incident."

Ugh, not that again.

"You have no witnesses," he waves off, leaning back in his seat while Sydney sets the break in place. Only then is he hit with a wave of calm, fondness even. His quivering hands curl as best they can in the blanket, the ghost of a grip, and he smiles out across the room. Ah, he can't be doing this already, but it's hard to help. He itches for the smell of a cigarette, a press on the back of his neck. Closing his eyes, he tries his best to feel it. "Besides, once they know why they're really here they won't be nearly so stressed. Hell, they might even be disappointed."

He tries not to grimace at that, but for the time he's giving them and the paperwork he made them sign, they're going to sit and listen to his old man ravings all day or so help him--

He feels a hand brush against his, and when he looks Sydney is there. She squeezes his fingers in hers, smile fond and weighed down with a sadness so foreign, he nearly regrets telling her to cut it out. But no, he understands. He's the one who understands the most. She grazes the fabric of the blanket as she pulls away, breathing in the same smoke he can for just a moment. "No, I don't think that's possible."

She doesn't give Neil time to doubt himself, not that he could. He can never doubt anything when it comes to Andrew, no matter how much the blond secretly doubted about himself. Neil always teased him for that, and his living oxymoron ways.

Neil's biggest goal of the day is to piss off Andrew's ghost as much as humanly possible, and his grin is nearly splitting at the thought. Fine, mission _active_.

"Good luck!" Sydney calls as she leaves the meeting room, and he watches her gesture to his guests once they arrive through the glass doors.

_Oh shit, they really do look terrified._

The two interviewers see him through the door and Neil can only assume they shit a brick. They're young, can't be more than a few years out of university, dressed way too professionally for someone as uncaring as Neil. They could've shown up in clown costumes for all he cared, at least he would've gotten a good laugh.

The young man fumbles with the door and his companion rushes forward a little too fast before correcting herself. Jeez.

Neil does his best to hide his laugh, not that he's ever been polite. It's more...

Their terror is Neil's fault. He started declining interviews soon after he retired, letting his name and lifestyle fade into mystery and speculation with the public. Kevin had _not_ been happy about it, since to this day he and Thea are in the public eye, commentating on Exy games, doing talk shows, helping curate museums, blah, blah, blah...

Neil didn't have time for that.

He never thought he'd be okay with slipping back into unknown status after so many years of being seen, being _cheered_ for, but when the time came it was an easy choice. Andrew made it so. Neil had his time to be free, to do whatever he wanted and play the sport he loved. But ultimately, when he no longer could, fucking off to do whatever he wanted with Andrew sounded way better than dealing with reporters and overzealous fans.

Just because he became an unknown though, doesn't mean he faded into obscurity. According to Allison, his life has been quite a hot button issue in the community for over a decade. People want to know where he's been, what he did during those years, how he looks back on the past, _everything_. It's been obnoxious.

Popular sports magazines and large publications have practically been clawing for a piece of him for years, and he's never given in no matter how many fruit bouquets they sent or how many checks they tried to write him. Though, one almost got him purely because they kept sending gourmet chocolates, and if Andrew was a glutton before, old age only made it worse.

So, Neil Josten is back to being a subject of interest for some reason, someone people want to know everything about. For him to randomly call up a dying indie magazine and offer them full rights to an interview under his specific terms surely threw the sports world into a fucking whirl.

Whatever.

He's going to share what he wants to share. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Mr. Jo--" The first reporter clears his throat, passing his notepad and phone over to his other hand before outstretching one to Neil. "Mr. Josten. It's such an honor to meet you, um, wow. I'm Blake, and this is Rayah. We're so grateful for being granted the opportunity to interview you. You're a legend!"

Neil stares at the outstretched hand like he doesn't know what to do with it, and as much as he does know what's expected of him, part of his hesitation is equal parts his disinterest and the fact he doesn't talk to anyone but his remaining family these days. Well, and Sydney.

Blake swallows and drops his hand, surely admonishing himself for his own stupidity.

Rayah saves him. "Um, we really are appreciative, sir," she says, laying out some notepads and setting up her recorder. Old school, Neil appreciates it. It's better than cameras and microphones. "We're still in shock honestly. We were theorizing on why you picked us the entire drive up here!"

"Neil is fine, and don't bother with small talk I know it's not why you're here," he says then, smiling at her words. They both flinch, taken aback. He's not sure why they'd be expecting a Kevin Day type. He has a record for being too blunt and argumentative for his own good. He's right though; they're here for answers, not discussions on how he's doing or what he does for fun in his not so humble nursing home. In much the same vein, he promised honesty, so he'll give it from the start. "I picked you precisely because you're unknown and failing."

They freeze, but they're clearly not Foxes. If they were, they'd immediately get indignant and glare, hold themselves back from punching a helpless old man. Oh, those were the good ol' days.

When Rayah fumbles for a response, a logic, Neil simply shrugs. "I like the underdogs."

He doesn't intend it to be, but it's a tension breaker. The stiffness in the reporters' shoulders deflate with a laugh, and they finally get back to organizing themselves without looking like they want to run for the hills and beg ESPN to take over.

"As your history suggests," Blake jokes, and Neil rewards him with a grin, tapping his Foxes pin.

He doesn't mention the fact Andrew would've never spoken to him had he gone to some trashy magazine, and that Andrew was always a bit of a rebel himself, though he hated to admit to any kind of urge that didn't involve Neil, sweets, or fancy cars.

Neil takes the free moment to wrap his blanket around his shoulders, letting the ingrained smell of ash permeate around him. Much better, he can think so much clearer like this.

As they finish setting up and take their seats across from him, Blake taps his pencil against the rim of his notepad. It looks like he almost wants to launch back into small talk, but thinks better of it when he remembers Neil's words. Considerate, a good listener. Just what Neil needs today.

Blake clears his throat, cutting through the bullshit. "Now, we know you have specific terms for how you want to lead this interview, which we're completely fine with. Wherever you want to start, we'll follow."

And with that, they sit back, unsure but ready to catch whatever morsel of information might fall from Neil's lips. Again, he finds himself fighting a smirk.

Of course, he led these people astray a bit, but he doesn't see the problem with having a little fun before revealing his true intentions.

He nods, pushing down the giddy feeling that always comes with talking about Andrew. Not yet, but soon.

"Hm, I assume you prepared some questions just in case," Neil asks, taking a sip of his water.

Rayah blinks, exchanging a look with Blake. She rifles through her notepad to a page in the middle, scribbled and stained with ink. There are so many questions on it, some of them curve over the others in a painful word twister. "Uh yes but, we didn't think you'd want to answer them," she guesses.

She's correct.

Neil loathes interview questions, because they're predictable. But in this case, he'll let the first one lead him down the road.

Neil relents, leaning back in his wheelchair. "Well you're mostly right, but why don't you ask me your first one?" He offers, and they look positively ecstatic. "That'll get me started."

And once he starts, he doubts he'll be able to stop.

"Sure." Blake clears his throat, making sure his recorder is functioning properly. When he's satisfied, he leans back, mirroring Neil's posture, though the rigidity is still there. If he doesn't lighten up, he's going to have back pains for days. "Now, there have been a lot of milestones in your career as a pro athlete. No one would dream of disputing your skill in the sport, or how you earned any of your countless awards--"

"Flattery," Neil warns, raising a single finger. That's not what he's here for either. In fact, as much as this is _his_ interview, it's not about him at all.

"Right," Blake says with a huff of a laugh. "But surely one of your brightest moments was your historic win at the Olympics. It was talked about for months within the community. Of course, any true Exy fan knows the details of the game, it was only covered by every major publication. So, I guess our question is, what do you most remember about that moment? Was it as monumental for you as it was for Exy fans?"

Ah, a predictable question, but also not a bad place to begin. Neil doesn't fight the edge of the smirk that appears, though he does raise his thumb to swipe at it. It's been a while since he's felt so mischievous, it's so difficult to be, well, _difficult_ when you're being wheeled around all day.

It was a monumental moment for him, though maybe not for the reasons everyone else would think.

"You certainly did your research," he comments, humming as he sits back in thought. He already knows his answer, but he's weak, and the feelings the memory evokes barely need to push him to send him careening off balance. Swept up. "Not sure what I was expecting from people so young, but my apologies for making assumptions."

He's glad they didn't ask the question in the stereotypical format, fishing for ways to brag and make it all about him. When he thinks of that time, as proud as he was, it's not his own praise that comes to mind.

With that in mind, Neil sighs.

"I don't think it was an exaggeration to say that was one of the best days of my life," he admits, and it's the truth. He's not here to lie. Come to think of it, he hasn't lied once since Andrew ran on ahead of him. Smiling, Neil lets the words flow.

"It was important to me, but not all because of the Olympics themselves..."

\--

Neil rarely has time to pay attention in Exy games, as horrible and inefficient as that sounds.

His feet move on their own accord like a well-oiled machine, cogs and steam rushing through him to propel him across the court at record speeds. And they _are_ record speeds.

That's why he's here isn't it? To run, to score.

It had been overwhelming when he first arrived, the sheer _size_ of the Exy court at the Olympics. It's surrounded by flags from all over the world, bright neon signs and sponsorships. The lights at the entrance had been so vibrant, he made the mistake of looking up at them.

Blinding.

All aspects about it are, because as much as Neil knows this is his life, it can't possibly be reality.

The crowd makes the one at the Ravens' stadium seem minuscule, out of its league with seats and aisles that almost climb up to the heavens. The crowd roars and Neil feels every cheer and stomp echo against his bones.

He never thought he'd be here, but despite the gravity of it, he no longer has the time nor want to dwell on it. All that matters is his team, and getting them the gold.

Being with Andrew afterwards...getting to see Wymack smile proudly at Kevin.

Letting Kevin be proud of himself.

And Neil is an Olympic-qualified player, so with all that in mind, he delivers the second best game of his life. Even in the final seconds of the second half, even when he's been body checked so many times the nuts and bolts he imagines inside him must surely be worn and off-kilter, he doesn't stop moving. Everything is instinct, from the force of his steps to the last minute shifts he needs to intercept the ball.

It's not Kevin's perfect strategy, it's not a map or an out of body experience where he can see where every player on the court is.

He has no idea what's going on outside of what's in front of him, no awareness of anything but the immediate threats and a certain beacon, standing in the goal.

And that's the hardest part of it all, not being able to look over at Andrew for even a moment after he scores, because the game is fast and ruthless, and he has twice the energy of anyone on this court.

It's a stupid way to play, if he's really supposed to be Kevin's double. But they all long since established he is far from it. He has his own passion, his own drive, and Kevin trusts Neil with his life on the court.

Probably through anything.

So when he sees the perfect opportunity for a final interception, a chance to get them the last winning goal of the game, he's surprised that it's the one moment where it all comes to a stop. He's never had the experience before; normally his body snaps into action. He's not used to comprehending things until they're said and done.

He thinks his body is still following through though, turning in just the right way, making sure he's lined up.

But Neil is aware of so much _more_ , his eyes train like a predator's on the goal, and he understands. He has a choice.

Choices are a weird luxury now, but he's gotten so used to having the freedom of them, he's forgotten the sheer magnitude they can carry.

His eyes snap to the goal, and then to Kevin. Kevin, who is so much closer, and already looking right at Neil.

And Neil never describes himself as fond towards most people, but he can say it proudly in that moment. This is the Kevin Day he likes to see.

Green eyes stare back, blown wide with a fire that can't be matched by anyone, probably not even his own mother, maybe not even Neil. A true, unadulterated love for this violent, freeing sport. Kevin catches Neil's eyes through his face guard, forehead drenched in sweat but his entire being _rings_ with energy, ready and unwilling to quit until the buzzer sounds.

A Fox, at heart. Neil knows Andrew can see from where he's standing in goal, and Neil knows he's just as satisfied, deep down. It might give him some peace of mind too, to know Kevin kept his spine.

Neil puts all of those emotions into his last movement of the game.

He inclines his head just so, and that's it.

Kevin moves.

As Neil's racquet intercepts the ball from the other team's striker, he can't help but be a bit smug as he takes a powerful step forward. He can hear the painful slide of his shoes against the court floor, the heat of being too close, too exposed.

His legs will surely be shot after this, but no matter.

Kevin Day was always meant to be the greatest player in the history of Exy, the reigning queen, despite the arrogance they'll surely have to hear non-stop about. Fine. It's only fair that Neil help him achieve that goal here, at the biggest stadium in the world.

(By no means the best one, but still).

The clock gets down to five seconds, the beats resounding off the walls of his skull. Neil swings his racquet with such force the strings whistle, and the ball moves in a straight line directly into Kevin's. The other striker has zero time to react, the force of Neil's brutal cut off sending him stumbling. The ball hits Kevin's strings hard, Kevin's grip tightening around his racquet to keep it close to him.

Kevin doesn't hesitate longer than that.

He shoots at the goal in one fluid arch, and scores.

As confident as Neil is in Kevin's aim and skill, he'll admit his stomach swoops. It's a feeling that never truly goes away, much like the instincts that keep him moving. He wouldn't trade it for anything, that millisecond exhilaration before it comes together.

Because well, at one point nothing ever fell into place for him.

In the flash where the ball hits the net, Neil feels the ghost of a key in his palm, reminding him when that changed. The buzzer of the countdown blares, and all that anticipation meets a well-deserved end.

The stadium erupts until not even the buzzer can be heard. There's a swish of plexiglass doors, the sounds of their coach yelling in triumph, but Neil's body is too spent to react.

Neil's heart constricts in his chest as he tries to get air in, but it's impossible. Satisfied doesn't even begin to cover it, though he's sure he looks just as breathless as Kevin does, staring at the goal as it lights up. The world moves around him, respecting his moment of privacy when they should be hoisting him up and not allowing him a minute of disbelief. Neil's glad they don't; Kevin deserves to look surprised once in a while.

His teammates pile on each other, clapping him as they pass. A lot of them are still in shock, a few fall to their knees right away, but Neil feels nothing but _fulfilled_.

He made the right call.

His body sags, stinging, and he feels Andrew's gaze pinning him upright from across the court. It's the only thing that gets him walking, but he wills himself not to look in his boyfriend's direction.

If he does well...nothing else will matter, and there's one thing he has to do.

In a haze, he goes over to Kevin, who turns, sensing him. Neil shakes his head at Kevin's arrogance to this day, because even though Kevin is the one who made this possible for him, who came to him first...

Well, he still lets Neil do all the work. Neil laughs and hugs Kevin fiercely, barely keeping himself upright, and they trade the trembling in their bodies. Kevin drops his racquet, their height difference making them look all the more pathetic. He can hear Andrew's voice already, telling them they're too emotional about a damn sport.

Somehow, that makes Neil even happier, and he leans back as Kevin pries his helmet off, eyes wild and _smiling_.

Yes, the right choice. Absolutely.

"We did it," Kevin says, but not in disbelief. He had to have known they'd always make it here. "We did it."

Neil squeezes his friend's shoulder and _grins_ , uncaring of what camera catches it. He's too damn happy to care. "Guess we did."

The crowd cheers so loud Neil can't hear more than a faint buzz in his ears, and the sticky scent of gatorade and sweat is an unfortunate addition. The cameras flash and shine obnoxiously through the double plexiglass to bathe them in light and attention.

Yet, with his legs feeling like jelly and his muscles stretched to the limits, there's only one thing he really wants. What he always wants.

Warmth, safety, something to lean on and keep him sheltered from the world before facing it alongside him. Neil hates that before, the only thing he yearned for was to play Exy. He thought that was bad.

This is so much worse.

Biting his lip, Neil turns to where Andrew is standing in the goal, already looking at him from across the court. And Andrew, with all his control, keeps himself planted there. Neil's breathing hiccups loudly, and Kevin's probably the only one who hears it over the cacophony.

Neil doesn't think he can cry anymore, but his eyes tighten up, he has to blink the pain away.

Neil wonders if Andrew's gripping his racquet hard enough to damage it, if he's digging his heels into the ground like Neil is.

Neil swallows down the lump in his throat. Suddenly, he hates the cameras more than usual; he's torn between wanting them to vanish completely, or wishing they paid as much attention to Andrew, because _god,_ he's earned it.

Neil digs his heels in harder.

_I want to be with you._

It's such a simple string of thought; it has crossed his mind so many times before, but never has the urge _hurt_ so much. It has nothing to do with all he's worked for, with the fame and recognition this win will bring him. It's just Andrew.

He hasn't had a knife to his skin in years, but this reminds him of the piercing of flesh, lighting his nerves on end and sending him towards the source of his relief, his contentment.

Andrew played so well, _so_ well, not just here. He worked his way through the pros until he got to Neil, worked his ass off for his reputation. He qualified with the rest of them to be _here_.

And tonight, he blocked almost every shot at his goal.

Neil closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down but he _can't_. This is one of the best moments of his life. If he can't share it with Andrew to the fullest, what was the point of everything in his past?

They're not out. That's the problem, he knows, as much as he doesn't give a single fuck. No one outside their family and management knows anything about them, apart from some tabloid rumors about their intense dislike of one another. If that doesn't prove how clueless the media is, Neil doesn't know what does.

And as much as they value privacy, as much as their peaceful bubble is enough, it's moments like these where Neil wants to _take_ and _show_ no matter the consequences.

He looks to Kevin, unsure. It's always been him, the one who warned them about the backlash they'd face despite his acceptance of their relationship years ago.

Neil expects the same thing here: the subtle shake of Kevin's head, the concern in his eyes for their careers and future. It used to piss Neil off to no end, but Kevin communicates all emotion through Exy, even concern. Neil's learned to read between those infuriating lines. The importance of career translates to _'without your career, there is no you.'_ Sometimes he forgets he's not entirely free.

And if he weren't around, then Andrew...

_'You can't leave him.'_

And so, knowing Kevin's language, Neil stayed in line, and he expects that same advice today. To his surprise though, it never comes. Kevin is looking at him, tired smile firmly in place as he nudges a shoulder in Andrew's direction. Neil's mouth falls open, and yes, he's convinced now. It's a dream, it's all one big dream. Except--

Kevin shakes his head. It's not resigned, or worried. He's just happy for them both. He pushes Neil away, straightening his back in preparation for his fans. Royal snob. "Go on already. You guys are gross."

And despite the laugh that falls from his mouth, Neil's breathing stutters, and he hadn't realized how wound up he truly was until it happens. His lungs fill with air and he throws his racquet to the ground. His self-control is poor, they all know that. Encouragement is all he needs to break him and send him where he belongs.

He takes off in a full sprint towards Andrew as the rest of his teammates crowd Kevin, looking after Neil in confusion.

Huh, so his muscles still work after all. The tendons are on fire, but it's the least of his concerns. He runs like his life depends on it again, faster than he ran during that whole game.

And to Neil's absolute delight, Andrew's body language screams _'finally.'_

The blond takes a step forward, throwing his racquet to the side like it's worthless. Oh. Andrew's bracing to catch him, and Neil laughs at the realization as he throws off his helmet. One day he'll actually make Andrew fall over, but for now he enjoys the strength.

He jumps into Andrew's arms effortlessly, feels calloused hands wrap around his waist as Neil reaches for the clips of Andrew's helmet. Despite knowing the barrier is there as he fumbles with it, he leans forward, lips grazing the metal guard. Andrew huffs, and Neil claws until the helmet clatters to the floor. He throws it a bit far, and it hits the goal post with a clang, but he doesn't care in the moment. If all eyes are on them now, he can't feel them. They're in a vacuum, a side effect of being so taken with Andrew at times. Unaware, vulnerable. The rush of sound from before goes dead around them. His fingertips can feel overheated skin, can trace the barely-there freckles on Andrew's face.

Andrew isn't in the mood to let Neil admire today.

Neil barely gets to see the color in Andrew's eyes before the goalie's hand grips in between Neil's shoulder blades, pulling him down.

It reminds him of their first kiss; Neil catches Andrew's lips and, as if not believing they're real, that something could feel so wonderful, he pulls back. His eyes widen, the first hit of a drug. He breaks the kiss only to dive right back in, uncoordinated but so sure of himself. And he doesn't get how, but Andrew smells the same as back then. Less like cigarettes, but the same smell of leather and earthiness. Neil doesn't read nearly as much as Andrew does to have the capability of describing it, but it's refreshing, like soil after the rain. Through the sweat and exhaustion, Neil would know him anywhere.

Andrew opens his mouth for him first, breath hot but movements predictable. Neil will tease him later for that. _You're getting old_. Because the dance is so familiar, the way Andrew pushes Neil's tongue back first. _'Come and get me.'_

Neil obliges every single time, because he can't back down from a challenge, and maybe he's getting old too.

Neil knows the kiss can't last forever, especially not here, but he allows himself to pretend it's not the case. Andrew hums into him, and Neil's hands feel all the vibrations from where his hand slips down to Andrew's throat. It's bared completely for him, and Neil gives a little squeeze.

He sighs into Andrew's mouth when his boyfriend's eyes open to glare at him, pulling back before kissing Neil again, and then one more time, and maybe just once...

 _One more_ , Neil thinks, brushing his lips against Andrew's so lightly they stick for a moment, and he licks his own slowly when he pulls back for the final time. His heart beats in his ribcage, or maybe that's the pounding of the reporters' feet as they rush through the stadium, he's not sure.

Again, it's always best for him to not look at Andrew if he's supposed to be doing something else, because in that moment, the blond has all Neil's attention.

They're already pressed chest to chest, but Andrew squeezes tighter, almost painful, keeping Neil there through the flashing of cameras and shocked cheers.

And while Andrew's expression gives nothing away for the public, it speaks volumes to Neil.

\--

Neil didn't know what old _meant_ back then, now that his legs give out after a good walk or his spine aches under the weight of _nothing_.

But they were predictable, that much was true.

Neil isn't looking at the reporters anymore, too focused on trying to weave the fraying threads of the blanket back into place. From their silence, he can guess they're as shocked as he expected them to be.

Unaffected, Neil reaches over for his water, taking a sip as he confronts their slack jaws and wide eyes.

Now, that might have been a bit unfair of him as well, to jump into such a blatant romantic recollection about Andrew. Again, Neil never took interviews, rarely took questions, but the subject of his relationship with Andrew was especially off limits for decades. What they had was theirs, and only theirs, even after outing themselves that day.

People naturally tried to pry, tried to dig up their past in hopes of justifying what they saw as a nonsensical relationship or gossip fuel.

Neil made them fear for their lives after that.

He eviscerated publications, reporters, top sports officials, talk shows hosts, pretty much whoever he needed to. Anything to keep Andrew's name out of their mouths. A lot of them sealed their place in the land of irrelevancy, media outlets were slammed by a combination of their fans, and Kevin's too, once he stood up in support.

Andrew always hated it, Neil's desperate need to protect him from words that no longer phased him, but Neil didn't care. It was one of the only things they fought about in their adult years.

It worked though; soon, all the major outlets aside from the tabloids stopped talking about it, knowing mentioning it in any way that wasn't positive or neutral would land them in a ton of hot water.

Even those online sources who refused to let up eventually fizzed out from lack of material; they tried their best to be nosy, but pretty much got nothing but some rare paparazzi photos a few times a year of them kissing in the park or on a date.

In short, it's a bit of an unspoken rule that you don't talk to Neil Josten about Andrew Minyard unless you have nothing but good things to say, and a lot of people are too chicken shit to take the risk and potentially insult him. That's the only disappointing thing, none of them have a shred of courage. Neil really _would_ talk all day about Andrew if people just approached it correctly.

Not that Andrew would've allowed it when he was alive.

_Take that._

Despite all the fear Neil instilled in the media, it never stopped the other famous Foxes from talking about how gooey and devoted he and Andrew were, but Neil let that slide.

The things he does for family.

So it makes sense that these reporters seemed to have forgotten Andrew's importance at all, another offense. Not just because he was the best goalie in Exy history, but because Neil was first and foremost, _Andrew's_.

Blake's mouth opens and closes, pen dangling precariously from his hand. "Are...are we allowed to ask about Andrew?"

Blake even flinches after he asks it, afraid that perhaps it's only okay for Neil to bring up.

_If you only knew._

Neil laughs, too relaxed to hold back anymore. The reporters stare, exchanging nervous glances with excitement tingling below the surface.

Yes, he supposes details about his relationship with Andrew are more secretive and sought after than even Neil's opinions. The reporters weren't even going to _try_.

But now, there's morsels of information dangling in front of them, and Neil need only give them permission. It's their lucky day.

Neil's smile fades into something gentler, wistful. It's the closest he gets now, to how he looked at Andrew. But it's still different, because that expression...

Well, Andrew is gone. What more is there to say?

Neil leans back, wringing his hands softly. "I guess it's only fair that I tell you the real reason I accepted this interview."

The reporters lean forward, holding their breath, but Neil doesn't feel like making them wait. It's all about Andrew now, like he wanted it to be. "I want to talk about Andrew, plain and simple."

Except when it's not.

Their relationship was anything but simple but Neil cherished each memory, and he wants to speak them aloud so no one forgets. He wants everyone to know how important this person was to him, so when he's gone and can't defend them, people can't speculate or taint it with their unasked for opinions.

"I've never had the opportunity to really reminisce about Andrew, not even with my family," Neil admits. He and Aaron and Katelyn would sit around the fireplace at their home sometimes, telling stories, or Kevin would send him old pictures or clips of Andrew playing. But never the intimate details, never the raw, and at times _complicated_ feelings. "It never felt right, even after he was gone. I wanted to keep it close still, so I wouldn't betray Andrew's trust."

Neil takes a deep breath, and it shakes his small frame, a cough escaping his lungs. His voice is rough, but no less sure when he continues. "But I know now what he'd say to that. That I couldn't, even if my dumb Exy brain tried really hard."

But he'd never.

He smiles, wiping his eyes when they aren't even wet. That's another thing he misunderstood back then. Neil thought he couldn't cry, but he's sure today he'll prove his younger self wrong.

Rayah and Blake stay silent through all of Neil's pauses, and the respect means more than he can say. Andrew would approve, he'd be okay with Neil's choice. That's what matters most, he thinks.

"For once I just want everyone to know how I felt, I want to tell you everything as I saw and felt it, so you can tell everyone else," Neil says, and hopes they can read between the lines for the rest. Ultimately, when he's dead he'll be nothing but bones in the dirt, his legacy won't mean much in the long run. But...if nothing else, he wants this to remain, for as long as it can.

He never cared before about it, but he guesses age really can put a new perspective on things. Neil sighs, and taps the table with his finger for lack of anything better to do. When he looks back up, he has their undivided attention, Rayah's brown eyes shining with unshed emotion. _None of that, not yet._ "Anyways, now that you know I misled you, I hope you're still alright with listening to me ramble for the next few hours."

If not, they can kindly fuck off, but Neil has his suspicions at this point that they'll stick around. As much as Neil prides himself on reading people's intentions well, he's quite horrible at reading people's _feelings_. But maybe he's improved in that arena too.

A price for everything, he thinks ruefully, reminding himself there's a break in between this session for him to take his pain pills.

Eventually, it's Rayah who stutters a response. "Of course it's alright! We're so honored! And not just in the...bullshit way."

She closes her mouth immediately after at the unprofessionalism of it, but it only makes Neil feel more at ease. He smirks, satisfied. "Noted."

"Mr. Jo-- _Neil_ , we really are happy to write about you and Andrew but I have to admit," Blake says, flipping through his notepad with a tight look on his face. "The questions we _did_ prepare as backup don't exactly lend themselves to anything about your life with Andrew."

It's precisely why Neil stated he'd mostly be doing the talking initially, but their first test question actually did end up helping move him along, so...

Neil shrugs, gesturing to the notebook with fierce determination.

These people are about to learn...

He can make anything about Andrew.

When he smiles at the two of them again, they must feel it deep down. They return it tenfold, and then Rayah clicks her pen.

And with the pleasantries out of the way, Neil opens up to everything he's been keeping locked away.

"Try me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thanks for all the feedback on the first chapter everyone, I was happy to hear all your thoughts (tho omg I made so many of you sad I didnt think it was that bad kjdngds) and thanks so much for following me on this journey lol I hope this chapter is nice and fluffy for ya ;)
> 
> there's some allusions to spicy times in this but very brief and not graphic! ^^
> 
> Thanks so much EmeraldWaves and nightquills for reading this over too, you're the best ; ;

**_"What do you remember most about the night you were inducted into the hall of fame?"_ **

Neil's suit collar feels especially tight as he descends from the podium, his body pulling him in one direction and one direction only. The smile on his face feels too tight, but the hoard of smiling faces and applauding hands around him don’t seem to notice. The rabbit instincts, as Andrew would call them, surge up aggressively. Neil hates public appearances like this, especially when the event is partly focused on him. He can only hope his speech wasn't too terrible.

People shout out their congratulations as he passes, but they all blend together like an oil slick meeting water. Pretty on the outside, but otherwise devastating to the fragile nature of his mind. Bright lights above bounce off full champagne glasses, creating a blurry horizon he has to squint at.

Years of public exposure has done nothing for his dislike of crowds, and he chases the feeling of Andrew's protective bubble. Warm, safe, home.

It feels like that one time Nicky dragged him to a party hosted by the baseball team in college, and left him to go hurl his guts out over the side of the house. At a certain point, Neil had been so overwhelmed he had hastily retreated from the drunk mob into the safe haven of the bathroom.

It's an eerily similar feeling, except this time his safe haven comes in the form of Andrew, suave and bored as he leans against the back wall. Much, _much_ better.

Neil nearly trips over his feet in an effort to reach him, but Andrew is always one step ahead. As if sensing Neil's distress, Andrew extends a hand, and Neil refrains from rolling his eyes at the muffled gasp he hears somewhere in the back.

Catching a glimpse of them acting like a couple is akin to seeing a shooting star in the daytime, according to tabloids. In Neil's mind, they all simply don't look hard enough. Sometimes just the way Andrew looks at him makes Neil feel like they should be behind closed doors, with how it radiates off both of them. He's not sure why people don't see it, because surely Andrew's denials aren't believable. He's incredibly affectionate, if all his gifts and gestures say anything. And more than that...

At the end of any given day, if someone checked, Andrew's fingerprints would be all over Neil. Some on the back of his wrist, trickling down his spine and ghosting over his lower back, dotted along his throat.

Skin deep, with heat that travels even farther.

He takes Andrew's hand gratefully, letting himself be pulled in by the relief of that unparalleled shelter.

"You call that a speech, Josten?" Andrew asks, though Neil catches the spark that sets his eyes aflame. Good—Neil missed it. These events sap the energy out of Andrew like a vacuum, and he knows he only puts up with them for Neil's sake. Neil is happy to be a compact little battery when Andrew needs it.

Neil readjusts their hands but doesn't pull away, giving Andrew a small squeeze to pair with his smirk.

"Like you could do better," he snarks, but moves against the wall anyways, shoulder pressed to Andrew's. They've both bulked up from years with the pros, but where Neil will always be somewhat lithe, Andrew is stocky and built like brick. Neil sighs, breathing in the scent of Andrew's cologne and the subtle mint of nicotine gum.

There are still some eyes on them, but people are mostly looking at the next speaker. Neil can't make out Kevin or Thea in the crowd, but that's probably a good thing given what's about to happen. "You didn't even give a speech," he remarks playfully, a hint for Andrew to chase.

Andrew purses his lips, not taking it until Neil leans further into his space. Neil knows he has the advantage here; he's dressed in a fitted suit, personally picked out by Andrew, with blue accents that match their team (and additionally, his eyes). However, that’s not Neil’s biggest advantage, considering he's wearing the watch Andrew bought him for Christmas—the one with a rabbit stamped cleanly into the back of the metal face. _'Now you can't use your dead phone as an excuse,_ ' Andrew had said, but Neil had seen through it.

Neil nudges him cheekily, gesturing to the room full of people.

"Surprised you're even here," Neil adds, feigning shyness in another effort to break through Andrew's (flimsy) blockade.

It works. Neil's not sure if Andrew's gotten softer over time, or if he's gotten better at this. Though he guesses he's the same. There are not many walls left for Andrew to scale on his end either.

"Don't be stupid," Andrew replies, firm and sharp. It sends comfortable shivers down Neil's spine, Andrew’s sternness causing the joke to evaporate. Even the insinuation that he'd miss Neil's crowning achievement...he won't allow it.

Come to think of it, Andrew's probably thought about it more than Neil. Neil worked so hard for this moment, to make a name for himself in the sport he adores. And he's proud of himself, he is, and he deserves to be in the hall of fame with how much he's fought. Yet now that he's actually here, surrounded by people who want nothing more than to sing his praises, all he needs is...

Neil giggles, whispering in quiet Russian. "You're proud of meeee."

Andrew huffs, but Neil powers on. "Admit it or...you know what will happen, don't you?"

" _Neil_."

"You look really handsome tonight—"

"Neil, I'm serious," Andrew tries, and while Andrew isn't the type to blush, the way his entire body stills might as well be equivalent to a fire. Neil's hand drifts to Andrew's lower back, because casual touches are second nature to them now. Instead of pushing away from the touch, Andrew's back bends for him, and Neil's gives a subtle press.

Truly, this is Neil's favorite tactic, complimenting Andrew. He'd learned in their last year of college that Andrew can't handle it, and the blond can try to say he hates it all he wants. But Neil never hears a 'no,' does he? "I love seeing the way the suit jacket fits over your shoulders. It reminds me of how strong you are. You're my anchor, you know? You always keep me safe, I feel like I can do anything if you're there. I love knowing this is real, that you're here with me and you'd fight to keep us—"

Neil jumps when Andrew turns on him, but his triumphant grin sits firmly in place.

Andrew leans him in to cut him off with a kiss, like he's accustomed to, but that's not something he's willing to give the paparazzi today. He takes Neil's hand again, glancing around. "We're leaving," he says, because he knows that's what Neil really wanted all along. Duh, Neil already knows Andrew is proud of him. "I've had it with this place."

Neil's body sings at the word choice, at the words unspoken: _'but not with you.'_

"Mhm," he agrees happily. When Andrew had been inducted into the hall of fame, they'd ditched the ceremony even earlier than this. So it's about time. "What's the plan?"

Andrew doesn't miss a beat. He tilts his head in the direction of the far doors, and Neil zeroes in on them. He'd clocked all the exits when they first arrived from force of habit, so he follows along with Andrew easily. "Reporters are at the west wing entrance, we'll have to sneak out the service entrance past the kitchens. It's handled."

Neil smirks broadly, and lets Andrew lead the way. One advantage to being so short? It's a hell of a lot more efficient to duck down behind people. "Did you already make a deal with the wait staff?"

Andrew's expressions in public are still quite reserved and closed off, but Neil can feel the smug energy radiating off his back as they push through the kitchen doors. None of the staff even bat an eye. In fact, some of them are trying extremely hard to _not_ look at them.

Neil looks at Andrew, brow raised.

"You'd be surprised what a couple autographs can get you," Andrew says, pulling them around a corner to survey the last stretch between them and the outside world. They should be in the clear, but the last thing they want is to run into a security guard or overactive publicist walking through these back hallways. Neil can't contain his excitement though, his leg thumping uncontrollably against the linoleum. Andrew pauses when he notices, and there's that flash of amusement Neil loves so much. "Control yourself, bunny."

"Stop making me wait," Neil shoots back, because he rarely has the opportunity to be this rebellious. As much as he cusses out reporters and fights people on the actual court, he misses the giddy mischief of sneaking around with Andrew. It's like making out on the roof all over again, or trying to be quiet during movie nights with Andrew's hand caressing his thigh.

It's exhilarating, and he can read Andrew's physical cues so well by now. The shift of his feet, the tension in his shoulders...It's like when he's about to block a shot with his bare hands, except this time he pulls Neil down the hall in a sprint.

He knows he's supposed to be quiet, but the best he can do is muffle his laughter with his free hand as he lets Andrew carry them out of the venue.

If Neil bumps into a cart of metal trays, they're long gone before anyone can react to the sound.

\--

The Lotus comes to a stop in the empty parking lot of the old football stadium. It's one of their favorite places to escape to, a project the city keeps claiming it will repurpose but never does. The lampposts lining the giant lot still work, but there's not a car in sight, the old building dark and menacing. To Neil, it's just...theirs.

Neil stumbles out of the small car, missing the backseat of the Maserati. He wishes they were driving their new Maz instead, but it's Andrew's signature car, and they knew they'd need to lay low.

Ha. To think they'd be invisible in a car like this.

Again Neil has to right himself, his pants still sitting halfway down his thighs. He's glad Andrew thought ahead with bringing them a change of clothes, but the cramped space isn't the best for changing into jeans. He has a feeling Andrew did that on purpose, forgoing Neil's sweats.

Doesn't help that Neil's legs are jelly for other reasons.

Andrew slides out of the driver’s side with a lot more finesse, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he comes around. Helpless, Neil drops his arms and lets Andrew pull up his pants.

It's the little things.

Neil smiles when Andrew sighs, loading some of his weight on top of Neil. He won't call it a recharge, Neil just knows. Neil plays with the loose strands of hair at Andrew's nape, at peace in the piercing cold, no real landmark in sight apart from the decaying stadium. It's weird; it reminds him a lot of when he and his mother would camp out in abandoned lots. Vantage points from all sides, but the risk of exposure and openness were high too.

Here though, more than ten years later, Neil basks in the vulnerability, because nowhere feels unsafe with Andrew in his arms like this. He lets Andrew sway them back and forth for a bit, and yeah, this is preferable to the sounds of clinking champagne glasses and excessive applause.

His publicist will give him shit for it later, but he wouldn't exactly be Neil Josten if he didn't cause problems.

Neil smiles into the distance, watching the flickering of a nearby lamppost. "The movie starts in an hour," he says eventually, and Andrew nods into Neil's neck once before pulling away. There's no disappointment in his eyes, and he taps Neil's watch to the beat of a song Neil can't place.

Instead, he just zips up Andrew's open fly, smirking at the unimpressed stare he gets. "You're a nuisance."

"I know," Neil says proudly, and watches as Andrew goes back to the driver's side. He looks a lot cozier and harder to recognize now, dressed in Neil's Palmetto hoodie and jeans.

"C'mon, we need to grab food still," Andrew says, and at the reminder, Neil's stomach growls. If they had stayed an hour more at the event they probably would've been fed fancy catered meals, but that would've messed with their Friday tradition of greasy drive in food.

Neil knows they’re showing a double zombie movie feature today, and he does not want to miss it. He straps in just in time for Andrew to hit the gas, and doesn't even speak up about all the traffic laws they break to make it there on time.

\--

"How mad do you think Kevin is?" Neil asks when Andrew is passing him his soda. He fits it snuggly in between his thighs, jumping from the cold. It can't be helped; the lone cupholder is reserved for Andrew's milkshake, in danger of overflowing from whipped cream.

Andrew turns back to the cashier at the drive thru, and their eyes are still on the verge of popping out of their sockets. They must be new. The other coworkers regard Andrew and Neil with warm familiarity, a little too used to the two famous athletes rolling up for food their nutritionist would not approve of. Andrew takes their bag from the worker without much acknowledgement of his shock, peeling off before they can so much as stutter a sound of disbelief.

They'll get used to it.

Greedily, Neil digs through the bag.

"I think he expects it by now," Andrew answers, uncaring. His eyes flick to the side when Neil's rummaging pauses, and Neil sends him a suspicious look.

"Two fries," he states, not quite a question, but a confirmation of what he's seeing at the bottom of the bag. Two orders of fries.

Then, in the privacy of their car, Andrew lets his feelings shine through. He rolls his eyes, but the edge of a smile plays on his lips. "Don't act like you don't eat half of mine. I got you your own for once."

A 'hmph' escapes Neil's mouth, and he holds a fry in front of his face. He can't exactly refute Andrew's claims, he is a notorious fry fiend, but...

He doesn't have to like it.

"Aren't I sweet?" Andrew says, mockingly, and Neil hates that the answer is actually yes.

"Salty," he corrects, surrendering to pop the fry into Andrew's mouth.

That's all he's getting from Neil's stash though.

The Lotus roars as Andrew pulls away from the stand and up the nearby hill. Most people at the drive in come early, eager to get spots closer to the screen, but they have a special spot far away from the throng of people. The hill only houses one or two other cars who have the same idea, spaced out far and free to talk or fool around in the backseats.

Neil never pays them any mind; it's hard to give attention to anything that isn't Andrew once the blond actually starts talking, offering theories about the plot or characters on screen he may or may not actually believe.

Neil has a suspicion Andrew just likes giving him more reasons to talk too.

The first movie is older, remastered but still carrying that grainy quality old horror movies have. The colors are subdued, almost rusty, and Neil's fixated by the way the flashes dance on Andrew's skin. Whether it be splotches of red or the ominous sunset, just before the eerie music begins, the scenes reflect in Andrew's golden eyes to the point where Neil can hardly follow the story.

Not that it matters, it's zombies. What more is there to get?

"Are you satisfied with the effects for once?" Andrew drawls, though surely he knows Neil's been staring at him for the last ten minutes. He doesn't put up a fight anymore when it comes to that, instead playing with Neil's salt ridden fingertips and drinking his milkshake.

Smiling, Neil lets his eyes drift to the screen. A show of gore and fake blood has him nodding, not nearly as affronted as he usually is. The woman on screen is a good actress, though movies will never get true anguished screams exactly right.

"Mm, practical ones are better," Neil says, commenting on the lack of CGI. Another good thing about older movies: they had to build the monsters themselves, had to spend a lot more time on the makeup and fake guts. It's slightly more unsettling, considering what Neil has seen and done, but less annoying than the computer generated stuff.

When Neil zones out too long, he feels a fry poke his cheek, and he opens his mouth automatically. Andrew watches him with a small smile. Neil's not sure when Andrew grew more comfortable smiling, but somewhere along the way they both got used to it. It's a subtle, quiet expression on the blond, but that's how Neil likes it. Andrew's personality will never be loud, never cheery like Nicky's or Matt's. But it feels like a secret, something reserved for those that mean a lot to the blond. Neil can never feel anything but pride when he sees it, when Andrew lets himself express a bone deep contentment for those people in his life.

For Neil.

"What is it?" Andrew asks, and Neil waves at the screen, bored with it all of a sudden.

"I'll never understand the point of people who approach the first zombie," he says, and he says this every time. And alright, he knows that's the only way to truly kick off the plot but it always rubs him the wrong way.

"It's not like they know it's a zombie, Neil," Andrew replies, in reference to the next unfortunate victim to approach the zombified man in the park. The zombie had been stumbling around, and the older lady simply couldn't help but ask if the man was alright. Being a good samaritan will get you killed every time.

Neil throws Andrew a look, aware that Andrew isn't so much inviting Neil's rant as much as he's poking it hard with a stick.

"Excuse me, I'm already wary of normal people walking around," Neil points out. And that's justified in his mind, given what he's been through. People are weird and should be avoided unless absolutely necessary. Neil's therapist, who he's begrudgingly getting used to, might not agree but Neil's not quite ready to fully tackle the issue yet. Instead, he gestures to the way the poor lady's face is now being eaten. "I see someone stumbling around like that? I'm not going near them! At minimum you should consider them drunk and violent."

Or at the very least: real fucking annoying.

"I think you have more survival experience than most people," Andrew says, but Neil knows he's not actually defending the character's stupidity. Andrew agrees, and his smile grows when Neil huffs.

For effect, Neil slumps back into his seat, arms crossed. When Andrew tries to reach for his hand, he playfully swats it away, doing his best to not show cracks in the mask he's wearing. It's a skill he learned from his boyfriend, the complete lack of expression. Problem is he can seldom keep it up for longer than a few minutes.

Neil eventually smirks, right on cue, turning over in the passenger seat so his body is facing Andrew. It's not nearly as seductive as he wants it to be, what with the food wrappers and wrinkly clothes, but he knows it's enough to be infuriating. "You think it's hot," he sing songs, and Andrew sighs.

This time, when he reaches out, Neil doesn't refuse the offered hand. On screen, more unassuming citizens are devoured.

The image of the crowd reminds him of the banquet, of his switched off phone that's probably blowing up with questions about where they are. It's another world at this point—the expensive suits, dinner, the rehearsed words.

Here in their car, sitting in the dark in his hoodie with his boyfriend's hand in his, Neil feels far more spoiled. That doesn't mean he's not appreciative though, and the weight of his accomplishment sits warm in his chest, flowing through him to remind him it's not a dream. He's alive, he's here, he's with—

"Yes," Andrew interrupts Neil's train of thought, voice nearly a whisper. "But your downfall is obvious."

That gets Neil's attention, though he does preen from the compliment. "Hm?"

Andrew shifts in his own seat, and for the first time that night, Neil realizes how tired the blond must be. His muscles slump with exhaustion, his eyes blinking away the strain, but it's a good tired, the kind you feel when you can finally relax and sink into your bed. Home. Neil experiences that a lot, when it's the two of them, and the scope of the feeling is only intensified by Andrew's words.

"You'd go back," he reminds Neil, because that's now something that can't be debated. Neil's breathing stutters, and he hears the unspoken words: _for me_.

It's no surprise that no matter how things change, Andrew's first instinct will be to chip away at something, to present a flaw to protect himself. Neil's not sure he's even aware he's doing it, the need to value himself as something lowly and not worth fighting for.

Neil will keep proving him wrong, time and time again.

"That's not a downfall, that's strengthening my team," Neil quips, and Andrew huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes.

But Neil won't let him get away with that. He picks the buzzing insecurity swarming around Andrew's head right from the air, and crushes it until there's nothing left. At least for the moment; with them it always comes back, they just get better at dealing with it.

"I mean it," Neil says, and it's not him being a shit like back at the banquet. This isn't a barrage of compliments to make Andrew flustered, and from the way the blond stills, he understands that. Neil's tone holds an almost dangerous quality, ready to slash anyone who would dare refute it. It's hollow, haunting; he would've been a much better actor for horror films than the ones in this movie. "Andrew, if you're with me, I can do anything."

That hasn't stopped being true, and he doesn't think it'll ever be the case. He won't ever be without Andrew.

Andrew doesn't tell him to be quiet or stop, just lets the words settle between them and mix with the suspenseful music from the screen. There's a muffled scream below from an open window as soon as the jump scare happens, but neither of them flinch. Andrew's gaze bores into him as the blond shifts in his seat, mirroring Neil's awkward pose.

They're both still so compact though, they make it work. Neil pulls their hands up onto the center console, rubbing the back of Andrew's palm.

"Hey," he says stupidly, after he's been staring too long. Andrew's gaze turns sleepy, _gooey_ , if Neil will be so bold. Andrew doesn't respond to his earlier claim, and Neil knows parts of Andrew's language well enough to know that the silence speaks more towards his agreement than anything.

Andrew may not accept all of it, but he'll hold it close, he'll remember it and chew on it as much as he needs to. That's all Neil can hope for.

"Hi," Andrew whispers back, during a lull in the on screen violence, and Neil scoots as close to him as he can. He doesn't want to miss a single syllable, a _breath_.

Without much else to say, Neil lets the giddiness from before rise up, finally speaking on it. His smile is too much to smother, but he tries and fails. "We're in the hall of fame together."

In an instant Andrew's smile falls, but it's an obvious show. And he calls Neil dramatic; it's a shared behavior. Neil laughs uncontrollably from it, from the way Andrew shakes his head up at the roof of the car.

"Junkie," he mumbles, because there's not much more to explain.

Or so Andrew thinks. Really it's less about Exy in that moment for Neil. The part that makes him so overjoyed, that pushes him over the edge into bliss...

"I'm proud of you," Neil manages through the laughter, and repeats himself with a few _reallys_ thrown in for good measure. But still, Andrew doesn't get it. Or he does, and he's being a shit on purpose.

"Tonight was about you, you know," the blond tries, tone suffering, but the itch of a smile threatens his blank facade again, and Neil's main job is to poke and prod it out of hiding. It's a fun game, no longer difficult. Not that he ever minded, not that he could mind anything about what makes Andrew... _Andrew_.

Neil looks up at the ceiling too, as if he can see through it, like he can see far beyond their universe and beyond the cosmos. They're so insignificant, he knows, but funny how these moments never feel swallowed up by the weight of it all. One day though, he supposes they'll fade into that nothingness, and that's why it's such a comfort to him, to know their names will be next to each other in some way beyond gravestones. "I know, but I just like to remind you. Everyone is going to remember you now."

Andrew is one person he doesn't want to ever be forgotten, for how he makes Neil feel...it would be criminal for that to even be a possibility. Neil huffs a laugh; Andrew's more the type to wax poetic, to say sappy bullshit and then try to act like he hasn't. But here Neil is, heart singing.

There will never be a way to leave that feeling behind as evidence, so everyone who ever doubted Andrew will know, but Neil can wish...Neil can dream. He can do whatever he wants.

Andrew tilts his head, his free hand casting itself forward, gesturing to the world beyond the screen, beyond the ends of the planet. "There’s no point in being remembered like that. When we’re gone, we’ll just be gone."

And in some ways, Neil agrees, or at least understands. Legacies only mean so much, can only withstand so much time. There will be other sports heroes, new rookies and players with their own accomplishments, their own time in the spotlight. But that's not what Neil means, not what he believes in. His fame is meaningless, it will wither and die. So will Andrew's. But... _but_ , he's not afraid now to have that spark of want, the need to preserve as much as possible.

Though if he's being honest, and he won't tell Andrew because he's sure to refute it, there will never be as good a goalie. Neil knows that.

Neil grins gently, squeezing Andrew's hand to call his attention back to where it belongs. Andrew listens, always bends for Neil in some way. Andrew extends his free hand across his lap, and in sync, Neil lifts his leg to drape it across the console. Andrew catches his ankle gently, thumb resting in the dip of bone. Neil shivers; he's been treated with such care for years, but it's never easy to fathom all the way. Andrew's hands are weapons, and yet he cradles Neil like glass, like he's not the tainted mess he is under these clothes.

"Normally I would agree, but you’re kind of my loophole," Neil whispers, shrugging in that infuriating way, the one that communicates clearly that nothing Andrew says can convince him otherwise.

Andrew is familiar with it, and is no longer dead set on fighting Neil every step of the way.

"You're ridiculous," the blond says instead, tracing through Neil's jeans, over the memorized lines and scars of his calves. Neil wonders if he likes to do that especially in these moments, to remember Neil is real. He's not going anywhere. "I don't ever know what to do with you."

"Kiss me? That might help," Neil offers, and in the next moment Andrew is meeting him halfway over the console. Neil wasn't even aware he'd shifted so close, but then he's surrounded by just Andrew. There's a hand in his hair, tangling the curls, and his mouth opens for Andrew's like a switch has been pulled. It's automatic, a craving satisfied. Over the years, Andrew's kisses became predictable, the taste of him no longer surprising or laced with desperation. Despite all that, Neil thinks they're even better now.

It's an exhilarating feeling, to know someone so, so well, down to the press of his tongue and the slot of his lips.

Neil sighs when Andrew pulls away, breath hot and eyes lidded, and alright, maybe they're not completely predictable. Neil is always taken aback by how quick his body is reduced to jello, barely keeping himself upright.

It makes him brainless, makes him ramble, so it slips out again. "I want everyone to remember you," Neil breathes into Andrew's mouth, chasing him as he pulls back. Andrew's hand on his chest stops him, Andrew's stare as intense as ever.

It's quiet; Neil has no idea what's going on around him, either with the movie or the crowd. That's unheard of for him, isn't it? But he's not scared, or nervous. Eventually the instinct will come back, the urge to check the locked doors and look behind the car for things lurking in the shadows. But right them, it's just the two of them, wrapped up.

Andrew tugs on his leg, pulling Neil forward until his thighs hit the console, and looks disappointed they can't be glued at the hip. It's cute, but Neil bites his tongue on the comment. Andrew must sense it, because his eyes flash back up to Neil's face, reaching up to cradle it. Neil can predict that trajectory too, the way Andrew's fingers brush the burn marks.

"Idiot," Andrew says. "Only you get to remember me like this."

_Damn you, Andrew._

The edges of Andrew's lips quirk up, triumphant in the face of Neil's stunned silence, but Neil refuses to admit he's won. Only...partially.

Neil will hold these moments for himself, close and free from prying eyes. He'll do that for as long as he can, covet them until he can't keep it in anymore. He supposes that's the best compromise either of them could ask for.

The swell of need in his chest intensifies, and he reaches forward to tug on Andrew's sleeve. It feels so dumb; he's allowed to touch more than this, he's allowed to grab and cradle Andrew's skin. But it's too much in the moment, and he tugs again, like he's right back in college.

"Home?" he whispers, unsure. Andrew looks around them, back at the screen and then at the moon hanging high in the sky. Technically, this is a double feature, and it feels almost wrong to pop this bubble around them. Neil's not sure he wants the moment to end either, not even when the credits for the first movie roll and early birds start to peel out of the lot. Headlights ghost over them, but the only move Andrew makes is to lean down and lower his seat all the way.

Neil, smiles, and knows exactly what to do.

They reach a silent agreement as Neil hops into Andrew's seat, fitting snugly against him as the new movie opens up:

_No. Not yet._

~

Neil notes with amusement how the reporters sit, slightly more relaxed, like they're not quite ready to let go of their professional personas in favor of pulling their legs up. Soon enough, they'll get there. Neil's barely begun to scratch the surface, and he hopes their matching looks of disbelief will fade too.

Neil puts down his water, throat already aching, but if that's the price he has to pay so be it. He's been feeling extra lethargic today, underwater and tied at the ankles, but it's not enough to dissuade him. Rubbing his throat, he smiles. "We ended up really sore from sitting like that all night, but we didn't regret it," he says. The purr of the Lotus is so loud in his mind he almost expects for someone to roll up to the building in one.

Andrew had driven them extra careful that night.

Blake jots something down in his notepad, skims it, then crosses out something else. A question he no longer needs answered, perhaps. When he looks up, Neil is waiting. "That's where you went? You got a lot of flack for that disappearance."

Oh he did, lots of speculations; a feud with Kevin Day, a PR war, a statement about the sports climate.

Really, he'd just wanted some snuggles.

"I've caused worse scandals," Neil says, brushing it off. Compared to all the other segments he's had in the tabloids and news media over the years, including the reveal of his bloody family business, the hall of fame incident is far from important.

And honestly, Neil doesn't care about any of that. Rayah seems to sense that the sports talk won't get them anywhere, and she offers him a laugh. "Andrew wasn't very social, was he?"

Ah, good. They're learning.

Neil's demeanor changes, happily steered in the direction of Andrew, and he leans back. An understatement.

"Neither of us were," he replies, examining his nail beds. That's not entirely it though, and he knew it then too. He's not sure why he never called Andrew out on it, maybe because it was so obvious he didn't need to. "But...I think in that case he was just trying to protect me. I was tired from all the preparations all week. Even when I was young, Andrew wasn’t really keen on letting me stretch myself to my limits."

In fact, after his freshman year of college, no threats in sight, Andrew's protectiveness was even more apparent. Neil endangering himself was a thing of the past, and Andrew made sure to keep it that way. After Baltimore, Andrew simply wouldn't tolerate it. He was aware of Neil's exhaustion, his fatigue, and while he never babied Neil, he wouldn't stop himself from intervening when he could sense Neil would not.

The stress of the hall of fame ceremony sapped Neil clean of any energy, that final speech pushed him to the edge. So Andrew took his hand, and pulled him away from it.

The two reporters share a look then, and Neil gets that surge of annoyance. Andrew would tell him to calm down, that it doesn't matter, but well...

Andrew isn't here, and Neil can be as angry as he wants when people misinterpret their relationship.

After a while, Rayah clears her throat, cutting the tension. At least she has the decency to treat him with the same respect he's giving them and not lie. Neil was never one for politeness. "I'll be honest, it’s hard to imagine someone like Andrew Minyard being that way. He sounds so gentle when you talk about him."

Though the insinuation was clear: to everyone else, he was the exact opposite.

"He had a lot of sides to him," Neil responds, because it's better than the petty response of _well he was_. He supposes that's not fair, not to them and not to Andrew. He plays with the watch on his wrist, now a little dated and not nearly as shiny. He's pretty sure the time is off now, so he's still the rabbit, running late.

"He could be so caring, but he never gave up his firmness, or his no bullshit nature. Believe me, if he didn't agree with me, he would've let me know. He had a way of snapping me out of bad decisions...not always kindly," Neil says, still grinning.

"You sound like you didn't mind," Blake says, though the confusion is still clear.

Neil had been deceived and led astray so much in his life, forced to swallow lies and spit them back out. Being with Andrew was so freeing; he never had to worry about those things ever again.

"No, I...I loved that about him," he says quietly. He's having a bad time with words, nothing new there. It's hard to make it sensical without having experienced the relationship first hand. He wishes Dan were here, she's able to convince people of anything. Still, he pushes, he needs to explain this if nothing else. "No one ever bothered to see Andrew beyond the hard exterior. Like you said...you can't see Andrew as gentle. Well, he was seldom anything but around me as we got older. I trusted him not to lie to me, and to take care of me, and I did the same in return."

He realizes his voice is taking on a desperate quality, but he can't help it. He could fill books with anecdotes, times where Andrew held him close or was just an absolute pillar of comfort. Try as he might today, he knows he'll never say enough.

People will still remember Andrew primarily as an unfeeling ghost, as the person who punched other players or was quick to anger, though that was far from the truth. Unless Neil makes his case here, that'll never go away.

"It's not that either of you ever provided proof," Blake says, and flinches at Neil's glare. It's a fiery thing, he hasn't used it in a while, but he assumes it's still just as acidic from how guilty the reporter looks. He stutters, and backtracks as best he can. "And based on what you said, I totally get why! It's just—"

Rayah, who is far better at making a case for the public's idiocy, is quick to lean forward. "There were only a few moments people ever _saw_ him act like he cared as much as you say," she tells him, and it's followed by a wince. "One of them...wasn't exactly happy."

Oh.

In an instant, Neil knows exactly what they mean. It was all over the place, wasn't it?

He almost forgets that; he was too busy drowning in his own terror. It was over forty years ago and yet the memory is so strong, the same pain shoots up Neil's legs. The nausea is faint, a reminder of how unbearable and sleepless the following few nights were. He remembers a sickening crack and the shout of people, the flash of cameras.

And Andrew.

Always Andrew, running towards him.

Yes, he supposes it's hard to challenge that moment between them, to categorize Andrew's actions as anything other than fierce protectiveness and worry. Yet when Neil thinks of that incident...what the public saw barely scratched the surface.

He can still feel Andrew's hands digging into his shoulders, can hear the slow footsteps walking into their home...

The room is quiet for a beat too long, and Rayah and Blake exchange a look. It's Blake that eventually clears his throat, and Neil regards him slowly, trying to shake off the beast of a memory.

It's over, it passed. But...it was important, so...

"Are we allowed to ask about that day?" Blake asks, voice small and gauging Neil's reaction.

He sighs; he can't exactly avoid it. There's lots more stories to tell after the fact that won't feel the same without the context, but there will be some conditions.

Neil nods once, tightly. He spreads it out in his head, and an old beat of paranoia surges up in him. Stupid. He's not that dangerous anymore, no one is watching him, no one is looking for him. But it has him looking at the door anyways, wondering if the room is bugged or lined with cameras he can't see. Well, he'll just be careful.

He flattens his hands across the blanket, chewing on his words. "I suppose it would be a disservice to what I'm trying to do if I didn't talk about it," Neil answers, gesturing to Rayah. "Go ahead."

Neil braces himself before taking the plunge, and gets lost in his past once again.

**_"The day you were injured, what was it like?"_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Next chapter we're sadly back to some drama but obviously you know it all works out bc I am a little baby and these boys deserve to be happy lol 
> 
> All comments are super appreciated, I can't thank y'all enough for the support <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologize in advance LOL this chapter was initially 12k but I did split it for flow purposes. I'll figure out what day to post the baby update sometime next week!   
> I was very nervous about this chapter in full so allow me to hide now that I've posted ; ;
> 
> Thanks so much [EmeraldWaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaves/pseuds/EmeraldWaves) and [nightquills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquills/pseuds/nightquills) for always helping me out with fics! The stories would be nothing without them lol
> 
> Enjoy <3

_He expects pain, he always expects pain._

_His head hits the floor and his vision floods with red, the headache spreading like a fog through his skull. For a moment, he's back on a cold basement floor, and his legs won't work, they won't move._

_The vision wobbles though, the voices of the past aren't as clear. It's been so long since he's been taken back to that place, to the body of a nineteen year old with nothing to save him. Even now, it's not as strong. The memory fades in and out until the roar of the crowd shatters it completely._

_Neil's not on the basement floor, his father is dead. Yes, at the age of thirty-five he's come to accept that, to smile at the thought._

_He knows something is wrong, because he does smile in his delirious state, and someone above him makes a choked, sobbing noise. His frown returns. He thinks it sounds like their team captain, and she's calling, yelling for someone..._

_There's a referee whistle and an uproar that follows. It's probably a few seconds, at most, but his awareness moves at a slug pace. He tastes copper and tries to grip his racquet, but he must've dropped it._

_Must've..._

_Neil tries to move, but when he does his body jolts. Like being next to a speaker blasting sound, his spine vibrates and his cells scream. He thinks they might be breaking apart. Is that possible? He'll have to ask Aaron._

_His eardrums ring from the cries of panic around him, but they're not his own. The gasps and screams of fear are not his, though they probably should be. Any other time, he'd be in an anxious stir, wondering if the puppet strings holding him up would finally snap._

_He freezes, his body refusing to let him move._

_But it's not pain._

_If it were pain, he could power through it, he could move with a strain and a groan. If it were pain, he could cry and freak out and wonder what happened._

_That's how he knows it's bad. This isn't a normal accident, a typical injury. This is something serious._

_All at once it comes crashing down onto him, and he forces his eyes open._

_The lights of the stadium are mind-numbingly bright and there's people trying to get his attention, but he doesn't care. Neil pushes the fingers someone is holding up aside, trying to sit up and hating himself when he can't. A few seconds. At most._

_He tilts his head towards the goal, because even in his state he knows the Exy court by heart. That's how he's measuring time. It's only been seconds, because there's no way Andrew would take any longer to get to him._

_He watches the blond sprint the remaining few feet, brutally shoving anyone out of the way. There's a snarl, and commands being barked._

**_"Back the fuck off."_ **

**_"Don't touch him."_ **

**_"Neil, can you hear me?"_ **

_Neil's throat is too dry to respond, but he squints his eyes up at Andrew, scanning his face in that infuriating way he does when he's trying to get a rise out of his boyfriend. **Yes I can**._

_The hands around him grip him harder, probably enough to bruise, but Neil can't feel it at all. Ah, not good. Not good at all._

_He expects Andrew's face to morph back into annoyance, or the begrudging amusement he always directs at Neil when he's being a little shit like that. Then he would know it's alright, it's not as bad as everyone is making it out to be._

_It does not._

_Andrew's expression remains stripped of his calm, of his restraint. All the things Andrew cultivates, the neutral indifference he shows the world...it's all gone._

_Once again, because of Neil._

_And Neil hates it, he wants to reach up and cradle Andrew's face in his hands and will him back into a sense of peace, into contentment._

_Instead, all he sees is panic, a desperation he's familiar with but hoped to never see again. Like if Andrew could, he'd shelter Neil from the entire world, hide him away in his chest until he was all healed._

_Neil tries to move again, one fruitless attempt to show Andrew he's alright._

_All he gets is a sickening crack._

\--

He doesn’t realize how silent the meeting room has become until he stops speaking.

Neil cuts himself off there, squinting down at the floor as the static buzzes around him and tries to cling to words that are no longer forming.

_No, no._

Neil bites his lip.

"Sorry, that's not right," he says, slicing through his recount of Andrew's expression. He recalls the way Andrew’s hands tightened around Neil's trembling form as if he could put him back together all by himself. Neil still feels the light pressure on his skin, and reaches up to graze the back of his neck. He swears there's the slightest dip, another part of his body Andrew left a permanent mark on.

It's not a memory he's afraid of, or one he's sensitive about. It's just—

Neil looks up.

At this point, Blake and Rayah have gotten comfortable. They're sitting, shoes toed off and legs up on the comfy meeting room chairs. Rayah's manicured nails are eating through the thread of her stockings, body tight with nervous energy. They both blink, as if shaken out of some dream. Neil's never prided himself on being a good storyteller, but he guesses with a life as random and convoluted as his sometimes was, it's hard not to be a little interested.

Blake has the most apparent reaction, squinting at Neil before looking at Rayah for confirmation that Neil did indeed stop _there_. "...what?"

Rayah, forgoing all professionalism at this point, puts her hands in front of her as if to ask: _and?_

Normally, Neil might smile, but something begins to unfurl in his gut.

Yes, he knows what the problem is, but weighing the risk is a lot harder than he thought.

Can he entrust that kind of knowledge to these people? Is that reckless?

Is it really his life story if it's not at least a little dangerous?

He knows if Aaron were here, he would scoff, though more fondly. _'You always have to get those around you in trouble.'_

Perhaps, but he'll be careful. If he relays this right...if he leaves blurry spots...

He can still get the important stuff across.

"I don't want to start there," Neil says, sighing. "Everyone knows what happened, it was all over the news."

Why waste time repeating details that can be viewed online in a video?

Before it was confirmed the injury was condemning Neil to an early retirement, most of the coverage had been about Andrew's severe reaction. His unwillingness to leave Neil's side, the way he shoved people away like they weighed nothing...

It annoyed Neil to no end how people's main reaction had been to _finally_ say 'oh, so he does care.' For so long, that's all Neil wanted; he wanted people to accept Andrew's devotion, to acknowledge other sides of him that disproved the heartless whispers. Though, once that day happened, Neil realized people didn't deserve to _see_ the evidence. Even when provided it, they twisted it and used it as even more of a reason to doubt them. After all, if Andrew cared so much, why didn't he show it more often?

Even now, decades later, Neil has to bite his tongue from going off into a rage fueled rant. He glares down at the floor, like he could burn the world to pieces.

Andrew put himself in such a vulnerable position just for Neil on that day, showing so much. Like Baltimore, his restraint was gone, focus turned entirely on Neil for the full span of his recovery. Andrew never viewed Neil as a weakness, far from it, but that intimacy was not something he readily liked to share.

For good reason, too. It belonged to them only, at least while they both lived. But on that day, it had been on full display for people to pick at, while internally Andrew's entire being probably screamed and twisted itself inside out.

_Worried_.

If Neil could've gone back in time, he would've been more careful, he would've made sure people didn't get to see Andrew like that and make their foul assumptions. In their years together, they'd made a silent, but unrealistic promise to try and spare each other pain. It was hypocritical of them, two people so familiar with how unforgiving the world could be. Would be. They never fooled themselves into believing things would always work out right away, or at all. Yet...they worked so hard to make sure neither of them had to experience fear.

And that day, Andrew had been terrified.

Neil knew it wasn't his fault, but old habits die hard. He'd been hung up on it for a while, always hellbent on protecting this person of his.

He and Andrew were insufferably the same in that way.

Months and months later, Andrew had flicked him in the forehead and told him to knock it off, that the past couldn't be changed. They could only move forward, and resume their fragile promise. No more martyr cards.

They both were all too familiar with how life could be disrupted, but Neil had still felt petty about it, about how people overlooked this commitment to one another based on a five minute clip. The urge to clear up Andrew's reputation had probably begun there, waiting to be ignited in his old age.

He wanted people to understand Andrew's actions that day weren't out of character in the slightest. They had no right to look on and judge.

Especially not with what happened later, the way they both had to mourn the life they'd built together, for fear it would be snatched away.

Yes, Neil kept those nights close to his heart, locked in his mind for no one else. Too raw, too exposed. Deadly.

But now, well, it's the most important part of this whole question, unavoidable. Andrew's immediate reaction to Neil's injury had been explosive, powerful, but not nearly as telling as what followed.

Rayah stutters, catching up with Neil's meaning. She leans forward, but her pleas fall on deaf ears. "Yes but...Andrew's reaction was so strong--"

"And _again_ , everyone saw," Neil reiterates. He closes his eyes, trying to find patience he no longer has. If he ever did. He sags further into his wheelchair, contemplating it all. How to best go about it. "I just...this was supposed to be about the sides of Andrew people didn't see."

And maybe about sides of him too. Weird, how he tricked himself into that one.

"But it would help people understand your relationship more if you went more into detail about his protective side," Blake tries.

He's right, but that's exactly why Neil _can't_ start there. It barely scratches the surface. He sighs, knowing this is already a stupid idea. Yet, if he's trying to share the true sides of how hard Andrew would've worked to keep him safe, he has no choice.

Neil nods, smile sad. Those hours spent in Andrew's arms, waiting for death, feel so far away now. Back then, his world had been crumbling, and now it's but a piece in the timeline.

He never let himself feel grateful for that, he realizes.

"Yes, but that was just a glimpse of it, albeit a violent one. It makes for something more engaging, climactic, I'll give you that." Neil huffs.

That's what's good for interviews, but Neil's made it clear he doesn't give a damn about that.

"But what I can give you is better, more important," he promises, because it's true. He swallows around the lump in his throat; even now, his mind is not so willing to give away the last of his private moments. But if not now, then when? "Andrew's protectiveness took a lot of forms, and I'm not saying the circumstances surrounding my retirement didn't affect him in the ways seen in the video..."

He knows they did. The panicked expression flashes in his mind once more.

"But I think what happened after that would make more sense," Neil says, and already the potential consequences make him shiver. Force of habit; his blood runs cold whenever he thinks of a black car, a loud cane hitting hardwood. "It would help people understand."

Blake and Rayah exchange a look, feet hitting the floor slowly. Neil assumes at this point they can sense his strain, the foreboding mingling with the air. "You mean...your recovery?"

"No," Neil whispers, and holds off, because Sydney comes in right on cue. Her entrance makes the two journalists jump right out of their seats, but her presence is so standard for Neil. He could hear her footsteps in the dark and immediately know it's her.

"Alright, I'm sure you all must be hun--uh," she stops, jumping a little herself at their reactions, about the air in the room around her. She blinks once, takeout menu in hand. Brown's. The usual, and Neil's favorite. It was Andrew's favorite place to take him on dates when he was retired, according to Andrew _'only old people eat here.'_

It never failed to make Neil laugh.

Sydney's smile is cheery at first, especially when her eyes rest on him, but it falls soon after. As Neil grew older, he learned letting people in was actually a good thing most of the time. However, he's still painfully aware of the downsides.

Sydney tenses up from whatever look is on Neil's face. Years of caring for him have made her attuned to his mood, the subtle mannerisms which make up any one of his given reactions.

And she can sense dread like a smell, potent and coppery.

It must be something else that comes with the territory, of years spent at Andrew and Neil's side.

She's there next to him in an instant, checking his pulse and looking around at the table to see if anything's wrong. It makes Neil chuckle when she goes as far as to check his water, like it can be accidentally poisoned right in front of him.

She looks between Neil and his guests, takeout menu clutched in her hand to an almost distorting degree, but Neil reassures her no protection is needed. He touches her wrist as tight as he can, given his lack of grip, and presses down until she lets up on the menu.

She blinks down at where they touch, then back up again, brown eyes squinting in confusion.

As safe as Neil plans to be about this, he doesn't want her anywhere near them.

"Sydney. Brown's is fine. Get our usual okay?" Neil says, and hopes his stare is as piercing as he means it to be. He's never asked her like this; she always knows. They've shared the same lunch together for years, and she probably still knows Andrew's order too. It's deliberate, and while he hates ordering her around in such a way, it's necessary here. He'll make it up to her somehow.

But he needs her to leave.

"Yes, of course, but...is something the matter?" She asks slowly, staring him down.

Ah Sydney, she always knows too much for her own good. Neil can't help but smile at her. Her perceptiveness matches his own at times, and maybe that's why she was so comfortable attending to him. She seems to understand in an instant, so he doesn't baby her with trying to hide the gist of what he's about to get into.

"Go put in the order, close the meeting room door and whatever you do, don't let anyone else come in," Neil instructs, letting go of her with one last imploring squeeze. "Knock when you come back, I shouldn't be long."

He watches her swallow and nod, glancing back at the two reporters. They're sitting up straight again, but not due to any expected politeness. They're more than aware of how in the dark they are, but Neil is guessing they've read up on him well enough too.

They should know they're about to step in a little deeper.

"Okay," Sydney says, veneer of calm back in place. She takes Blake and Rayah's orders and then leaves, not bothering to linger. "Excuse me."

Neil waits until her steps completely fade from the outside hallway before he turns back to his guests, expression grave.

Old threats echo in his mind, reminding him of the old can of worms. He's not even sure if they even apply anymore, but he took them seriously enough when the Moriyamas gave them to him, he still shudders to think about defying them. He's probably been forgotten in that world at this point, but he can never be too safe.

"I'm going to make something clear about this part of the story," He begins, and shakes his head when Rayah grabs her recorder. Nothing recorded for this, only notes. If that's even smart… “For your own safety, you are not to ask too many questions about this particular incident. No names, no affiliations, not even questions about how they looked. You're going to wait until I'm dead and gone before you release it, and edit it so it's as vague as possible. Not the Andrew parts, but the rest. Don't let it fall into anyone else's hands."

He trusts himself to be careful enough where no connections can be made, no assumptions tied back to any one family past or present. But...insurance is paramount.

From the way the reporters look at each other, Neil almost wants to laugh at the assumptions they're making. The mob is in many ways a business; it's built upon negotiations, psychology, and ties. It's not entirely the bloody, underground image the movies portray.

But...it can be.

"Okay...what is this about?" Blake asks,

Neil smiles ruefully. "I'm sure you know all about my father's line of work." He grimaces, and amends: "The Butcher, I mean."

They nod instantly, probably unsure if it was okay to bring it up. In most cases, no, and he won't be doing it again. His father is good for context, nothing else.

"We...we know you gave up a lot to the FBI, that you got out of that life," Rayah says, like she's reading text right off his wiki article.

He guesses that's fair. No one knows much; his father's gang got caught, died, and Neil testified against the rest. Signed, sealed, done.

"That's what the news reports said, easy to spin," he responds, clicking his tongue. "Poor Neil Josten, a victim of one evil man and his gang. But it was never that simple, and I was never free, not for a long time."

He'd viewed it as freedom though. It was the best outcome he could've asked for, given all he'd been prepared for. He'd been given the unlikely chance to cultivate and build his life, but it always felt suspended, and they knew it. One wrong move for any of them, be it himself, Jean, or Kevin, and those chances would be revoked.

It hadn't really occurred to him how suffocating that reality was until his time ran out.

"You were still in the mob?"

Neil shrugs.

"I had some debts that needed to be paid, to people much much more powerful than my father. You would not even begin to understand how deep these organizations run or how influential they are. I was tied up in it for a lot of my career, and it all came to a head when I got hurt."

After the sickening crack, Neil doesn't remember much. But part of him had to know he'd never play again, and for him, that was a death sentence. He'd been prepared to make his case to the Moriyamas when he reached normal retirement age in his forties. He'd studied up on as much as he could, ready to show them how much of an asset he could be. He could still make them money, still be an important public figure. If nothing else, he could do menial tasks so they'd be benefited.

It didn't have to end with Exy, and he'd been hopeful Ichirou would see things his way.

The injury derailed his confidence in those plans, and as much as he'd prepared for that eventual confrontation, he could not ignore the very real threat:

What if Ichirou didn't care? What if he'd decided Neil's purpose had run its course?

It was something Andrew had not been willing to consider, but Neil had.

Neil sighs; he's not afraid of them anymore, whether or not that's a good thing is yet to be seen. Rayah and Blake stare back, not truly comprehending the seriousness. Why should they? They've never been so entrenched in those systems. They haven't seen what Neil has.

That's alright, he'll just have to do what he can and trust they'll take him seriously.

"I need your agreement that you get it, that you'll listen to me," he says, and for dramatic flair, he adds: "This is not a game."

He plays on their fears of movie mafias, and hopes it works. If he's being honest with himself, it's for selfish reasons. Neil would never want this to fall back on Kevin or the remaining Foxes.

"We understand Neil," Rayah states, hand over her heart. As if that means anything to him. "We'll be careful."

And whether or not they actually are, it no longer matters. After all, this is his story. He'll choose what goes into it.

So finally, when the question comes, he's ready.

"What happened?"

\--

The x-rays stare back at him.

Neil's honestly not sure why he's being shown them; he knows what they mean, but he didn't need to see the actual fractures to know the end result.

Neil doesn't move as the doctor finishes reviewing them, stepping back to let Neil process. He wonders if this is where the reaction is supposed to go. If this is where most patients would cry or scream or begin asking their delusional questions.

Maybe that's why the doctor looks so shocked when Neil does nothing. Neil leans back in the hospital bed, aching and unable to move his legs, carefully wrapped in casts. He's a little surprised himself. This is where he should be asking when he'll be able to play Exy again, right?

This is where he begins to panic, where he needs the press of a hand on his neck.

Well, he'd still gladly take that, but more so because he wants it, not because he needs it.

Andrew is a comforting, but imposing presence at his side. He hasn't slept or eaten anything since Neil was admitted, refusing to leave Neil alone for even a moment. His calm facade is back for everyone else, but Neil's been tracing the poorly locked away fear in those eyes for hours.

And now, here is confirmation of what they both already realize. Neil can't bear to look over at Andrew in the moment, but he can sense the tension, the tight coils of reality crashing down on the blond's shoulders.

The doctor looks between the both of them, before dropping what Neil supposes is the final bomb into the quiet air. But he knows.

"I know this is not easy to process," the doctor says, slow and unsure, but Neil only blinks at him. "In time, with the right amount of physical therapy, you'll be up and moving again, but it will be an adjustment. Competitive sports simply...won't be an option."

He stops listening after 'time' comes out of his mouth. _Time_. How funny.

There will potentially be no time for anything.

Neil wonders if he's being rational or pessimistic. He's always known what this moment could mean, and he's dreaded it. He would spend years with nightmares, flinching at black cars or preparing for how he could persuade. Lie. Anything.

Whatever he could do to keep this, to spare both himself and Andrew the pain.

Now, the life he's developed and the life he loves is being threatened, but the dread has decided to spare him. Maybe that's more of a sign of his final moments than anything else.

He doesn't want to run, or wallow, or waste what little _time_ he might have left.

He only wants...

Neil finally looks over to Andrew, tilting his head just so. It hurts him far more to see the look on Andrew's face. It's expectant, waiting to follow Neil's plan of action. Whether it be to skip town or scream or gear up to fight...

Andrew's looking for _something_ , ready for _anything_ , and Neil can't give it to him.

_I just want to be with you._

Andrew's eye twitches at the sigh which leaves Neil's lips, fond and gentle. Neil knows better than to touch him right then, but he wants to. He wants to tell Andrew to let go of all that strain, to just whisk him away and they can go on a date, they can rest or rewatch that one movie that freaks Neil out.

But Andrew only looks like he's fighting back a snarl at Neil's passiveness, and Neil won't waste time explaining. It's not hopelessness he feels, but the weird mixture in its place is no more warm or sweet. It's a different kind of pain, mixed with resignation.

It's so opposite of everything Neil has ever been, but he's not willing to let Andrew help him this time. It's not selfish, it's not the martyr card Andrew will accuse him of.

He's simply at the end of the line, and he's going to spend it how he wants.

Neil turns back to the doctor, just one question on his mind. "Can I go home? We can afford in-home care."

The doctor's jaw drops before he collects himself, not really in the mood to argue with star athletes whose careers just came to a halt. That, or he must know all about Neil Josten, and how he's not prone to listening to anyone's advice.

The doctor is silent for a minute too long, outside the limitations of Andrew's patience, and he flinches at the way the blond's hands tighten on the bed rails. Neil's heart skips a beat at the sound of Andrew's knuckles popping, at the redness of his hands.

The doctor takes the hint. "I'll get the paperwork set and get a wheelchair," he says. "A nurse can escort you--"

"No," Andrew says, the first word he's spoken in hours, and it leaves no room for argument. Neil smiles down at his hands, wrapped in white hospital bands and connected to wires. Yes, that's where he'll be selfish. He'll let Andrew watch out for him, for a little while longer.

Though, Neil is old enough now to know Andrew never minded.

The doctor waits for more, but gets nothing. He takes the x-rays with him when he goes, pity sweeping over them for reasons Neil no longer cares about. "Very well."

The door clicks shut, leaving only the sound of Andrew's harsh breathing mixed with the steady beep of vital monitors. Neil really does hate hospitals, but even more so today.

When they're alone, the roles reverse, and it's Andrew who won't look at him. The blond starts to pace the floor of Neil's private room, wearing the linoleum thin and only stopping to glare out the window. Whenever his phone rings, he silences it, before eventually just turning it off altogether.

And through it all, Neil can't help but smile at him. He doesn't think it's the pain meds; he's aware, clear headed.

There's guilt there too, but he knows Andrew won't have it. Neil once again wishes he could spare Andrew this anxiety, this helplessness. But well, at least Neil is here this time, for however long that is.

Andrew walks forward a little too fast after another sharp turn, and nearly trips. Then, he really does growl, fists shaking with the need to lash out at something. It's been awhile since he's seemed so rage filled, but Neil doesn't bother poking him about it. He's happy it's abnormal now, that he's so used to a calm, content Andrew.

Neil's heart squeezes in sadness unrelated to his career. He watches Andrew stop, the anger shaking him but rendering him unable to do much else but tremble. He stays put in the middle of the room, looking everywhere but at Neil

Neil supposes he expected that.

"Andrew," he tries, a beckoning tone that Andrew is so weak to on most days. He means for it to be playful, but it comes out a small whisper, pleading. It gives too much away, and that's when Neil starts to feel the beginning edges of his own stress.

All he knows is he wants Andrew next to him, he wants to feel Andrew's pulse, his warmth. _Right now_ , he thinks, _come here_. It's childish and unrealistic, he only just found out about the x-rays. Word wouldn't travel that fast, but to think that any moment could be his last and Andrew wouldn't be _touching_ him.

Andrew tenses instantly, and while he doesn't meet Neil's gaze, he's at his side again just as fast, grip tight and unforgiving on Neil's hand. Never babying, but reminding Neil he's real too. They're together, and nothing will change that until they know Neil’s fate for sure.

Still, they need to address it. They've grown past the days of trying to read each other's minds. Neil can imagine how Andrew is feeling, but he'd rather not. He wants to hear it, he wants to hold all of it like he holds Andrew.

However, he's not surprised when Andrew cuts him off when he tries to open his mouth again. The grip on his hand is bruising now, but not commanding. It's desperate, and it cuts Neil even deeper.

Andrew exhales shakily, holding up their hands as if to speak, before placing them down on the stiff sheets once more. Neil's familiar with all sides of Andrew, even the unsure side, the hesitant one. It doesn't make it easier to process.

He wants to tell Andrew it's okay, they can both look out for one another, even when Neil's the one physically broken, but Andrew shakes his head.

Not yet.

"I don't want to talk about it," Andrew finally admits, voice rough and scratchy, and all Neil can do is nod. He's not trying to fight, not here, so he doesn't dare point out that eventually, they'll have to.

He just sighs, and brings Andrew's hand close to his chest so he can feel it beat, full and proud.

"Let's go home."

\--

Over the next few days, he gets settled in, their bed modified and moved to better accommodate the nursing supplies Neil needs. Andrew still keeps it at the best vantage point, angled so he can watch the door. Andrew tried to make the case for getting a separate cot to allow Neil as much room as possible, but Neil refused.

He's going to have things remain as normal as possible, soaking up Andrew's presence as much as he can. While he can.

For the first time in years, Andrew's perch changes. Instead of having his back pressed to the wall, with Neil protecting him from the open room, he tucks Neil in instead, becoming his shield in yet another way.

It's a small barrier, it would buy Neil maybe...oh, a second of time, if he even _could_ get away. It makes Neil pout; he likes it when he's the one keeping Andrew safe, but he knows he's in no position to physically do so.

Now, his attentiveness has to come in the form of hard conversations and requests, ones Andrew hasn't even let him bring up yet.

Neil tries more than a few times to comment on it, to lead them down the road of conversation Andrew is avoiding, but Andrew just bundles Neil up. More often than not, Andrew moves Neil's arm too, so it's wrapped around the blond's waist.

It's a deadly arrangement, because it's unbearably cozy. As much as he hates it, the medicine makes Neil sleep a lot, and he's always worried he's going to wake up to more than Andrew's attentive face and steady breathing.

Neil doesn't think Andrew has slept more than a few hours, but Neil can't judge. The dread he'd been relieved of at the hospital now sits like a veil, much worse now that he's home. There's more to cherish here, more to miss.

He doesn't want to be anywhere else, but at the same time he doesn't want it taken away.

The cats take to sleeping on his chest or curled into his side, little protectors themselves. Neil wonders if they have a sixth sense, if they can tell something is wrong. If they can, they're a lot more subtle about it than humans are.

The main example of that is Neil's Foxes. They all call, first in a frenzy and then on a strict face time schedule organized by Andrew. It lets Neil sleep, as much as he wishes he could talk to them forever.

Still, he can only take so much of the tension in the air when they do. His Foxes aren't sheltered, nor are they stupid. They're all too aware of Neil's contract and how it's about to run out. If Neil's being honest, he's shocked he's lasted this long with no word from Ichirou, but none of the Foxes dare to bring it up.

When Kevin calls, his face is haggard and eyes wide, but he barely gets a word out before Andrew threatens to hang up. The panic in Kevin's face dissolves into something sad, pitying, and Neil has to grab Andrew's hand to force it away from the button. His hand shakes in warning, but lets Neil guide him.

“Neil…” Kevin says, swallowing down what Neil guesses to be bile, because Kevin has always reacted so strongly to any indication of things going wrong. Neil nearly feels bad. Things haven’t gone wrong for Kevin in a long time, and he’s glad. As if sensing Neil’s guilt-ridden smile, Kevin blinks at him through the screen, fishing for answers he no longer needs. “What am I supposed to…”

Do?

And they say Neil asks stupid questions. He shakes his head fondly. “Nothing. You won’t have to do anything. You’re Kevin Day.”

_You’re strong._

It’s something Neil’s known forever, though it took a while for Kevin to start acting like it. With all his progress, Neil can’t imagine this being a setback.

Kevin’s hanging jaw clamps shut.

It's then Neil really looks at Kevin, sees how he's aged. There's some silver that's starting to show in his hair on the side, a fact they all like to poke fun at, but his features are just as young as they ever were. Deep brown eyes locking away a cautious fire, a constant burn. He knows he and Kevin have never been the type to get all emotional with one another, but when he smiles at Kevin's worry, at the fire wanting to be let loose...

Well, he hopes Kevin can tell how much Neil appreciates him, how they don't have to hash out more painful things. Also, he hopes Kevin picks up on the subtle threat in Neil's eyes, a burn all his own. Kevin Day isn't supposed to be controlled by fear anymore, and that's going to be a rule regardless of if Neil is around to enforce it.

He lets them sit in silence like that until Kevin nods, and utters an impossibly small: “I promise.”

And naturally, Neil understands.

They talk about Kevin's game, about Thea, about some docu series Kevin is in love with. All the while, Neil nestles himself into Andrew's warmth, and forgets anything is wrong.

The rest of his team learns fast. Allison takes to scolding him in the way she always does, but meticulously avoids any mention of the future. Instead, she reminisces on the vacations she made him take with her; Rome, Spain, that one random town in Montana.

She gives him a mix of good and bad memories, the places they went, that one rude waiter she almost fought in the parking lot.

It makes him laugh, and he's glad to be able to exchange jabs with her. It's only at the end where her mask cracks and she lingers a bit too long, telling him goodnight one too many times.

The calls blend together, each with their awkward goodbyes.

In another hour, he’s listening to Katelyn’s excessive cheer, overcompensating for the gloom carrying through the phone lines. She’s holding a picture of the four of them, when they went to Alaska. “Remember when we made Andrew get in that plane to fly above the glacier? He was terrified!”

At least Katelyn knows how to get his mind off things: bring up Andrew.

She talks too much, like she always does, but Neil appreciates her stories about bitchy patients and scandalous coworkers when her vacation tales run out.

“What about Sandra? Is she still being an asshole?” He asks, an invitation to talk about anything other than his injury. It’s not that he’s in the mindset to really care, and he suspects Katelyn doesn’t either. She’s on autopilot, in need of direction. Despite every attempt to veer them away, she’s biting her lip raw during her pauses, scanning Neil up and down.

Concerned. Too much so for his liking, and he throws another topic at her.

“O-oh yeah, you won’t believe what she did yesterday Neil! She—”

And Katelyn latches onto whatever prompt he gives her, so unwilling to upset him. No matter how much it’s eating at her to behave so selfishly, she’ll do it for him without question.

It's also a welcome distraction to the way Aaron keeps glancing over at Andrew on their call, gaze strained and _worried_. Neil is glad he's not the only one thinking of Andrew's feelings, but not even Aaron's prodding gets Andrew to talk to Neil about the elephant in the room.

“Andrew, have you been eating?” Aaron asks, and gets nothing. That’s not exactly common anymore, and Aaron glares at the silent treatment. “Neil’s not a baby, you can leave him for a few—”

“Sweetie,” Katelyn whispers, placing a hand over Aaron’s. Her eyes echo an acceptance that hasn’t processed for Aaron yet. He looks at her in disbelief, and then back at his brother, almost pleading with him.

The call ends quietly, even with Katelyn doing her best to fill the void.

Neil can’t blame Aaron for his denial. Aaron wants to pretend it’s all normal, that Neil will be here day after day, forever. Funny, how he’s just like his brother in that moment, unwilling to swallow reality.

Neil stares at him before they hang up, willing him to see the logic. Neil wants nothing more than for Andrew to take care of himself.

But things are not _normal_. As long as Aaron frames things from that lens, Andrew will never listen.

Neil tries though, on his end. He tries and tries, and feels his patience running thin. He doesn't want them to be left with anything unsaid. He wants to hear Andrew's voice, even if it trembles.

"If you don't rest, you won't get any better," Andrew says during one call break, trailing off. Neil can only sigh at the tone, throat too closed up to snark. He wants to ask Andrew if he's talking to himself, because obviously he's being the delusional one this time.

Neil wonders if he should consider this a good thing, that Andrew has let himself have _hope_.

Neil hides his expression in his pillow, unwilling to let Andrew see an ounce of the realization that he can't fulfill it.

The calls pile up, and Andrew's grip on Neil's waist tightens with each passing comment.

Dan and Matt try to fill Neil in on as much of their lives as they can in order to offer him a distraction. They're horrible at avoiding the topic of Exy, fumbling every time they do, but it makes Neil smile each time. He hasn't let it sink in that he'll never play again, but it doesn't hurt as much as he thought. It's more of a dull ache, a yearning to run free and _win_ , but one he can manage. Exy stopped being his entire world some time ago.

Nicky, the one Neil considers responsible for that realization, is all about Neil's recovery. It's almost daunting, since Neil hadn't exactly let himself think about anything past the end of this week.

But Nicky doesn't let Neil or Andrew escape the conversation, and Neil has to fight back his smile.

“Andrew! Don’t ignore me, I want to know that you’re taking care of our boy,” he nags, scrolling through his laptop too fast for him to be able to actually read anything. Neil imagines the cursor bouncing off the sides of the screen. “I’ve been reading some articles…what treatment plan do they have Neil on? Is the hospital even reputable? I’m getting Aaron in on this or so help me—”

Nicky has come to read Andrew well, in his own way; he asks Andrew a plethora of questions because he knows it gives Andrew something to focus on. A task, a purpose. He asks about every mundane detail, from Neil's medication to his sleep schedule, to physical therapy and onward.

“I say you create a color-coded schedule, so you don’t miss appointments. And buy a _real_ calendar for fuck’s sake! We can start planning things to do when you’re better Neil!”

Andrew tenses at that one, but it doesn’t deter Nicky in the slightest.

He doesn't shy away from the idealistic future, because he must sense it's what Andrew needs. Nicky probably needs it too.

"And Neil, no getting into any fights," Nicky scolds, pointing his finger into his phone's camera thirty minutes later. Neil has barely said a word. "We can't have you backsliding."

Neil huffs, nodding along with him. Andrew has relaxed a little bit where Neil is lying on top of him, but not nearly enough for Neil to be satisfied. That's how Neil knows his boyfriend is more than aware of their situation; Andrew's not delusional, only stubborn.

The world will have to pry Neil out of his cold, dead hands, and that's exactly what Neil's afraid of.

"What if I don't start the fight?" Neil asks, against his better judgement. It's supposed to be lighthearted, but it comes out more serious than he'd planned. _Shit_.

For the first time in hours, Andrew's gaze slides to him and stays there, peeling him back until there's nothing but rawness. Nicky's laughter dissolves slowly, hanging in the air with Neil's words. Neil tries his best to send Nicky an apologetic look for breaking his efforts, for reminding them all of the other possible option. The probable one.

But, Nicky has a reputation as the strong one.

He huffs, throwing Neil a sad smile, like Neil is so stupid and he loves him for it. Nicky's not there, but Neil tenses, like he's being crushed in one of his hugs anyways.

"It's okay," Nicky says, glancing between the two of them. "Andrew will—Andrew will keep you safe."

Nicky swallows, breathing choppy, but nothing compared to Neil's. Neil's might stop altogether, but Nicky doesn't back down until Neil gives him that same, tired smile.

Neil hears his words from years prior, echo in his head.

_Andrew will protect you._

Neil's smile quivers at the edges, and for someone who seldom cries, Neil feels like he's been skirting the edge all day. His face hurts like he's been sobbing, muscles pulled taut and eyes red from how much he's had to rub them. His throat is raw from how many times he's choked on every emotion, good and bad, but no tears come to expel the chemicals of rage and despair. It's like he's bottling those up too, savoring them for as long as possible.

"I always do," Andrew eventually comments, the usual deadpan, and Neil's heart nearly bursts in his chest. He can't stand Andrew sometimes, is what he wants to say, but that's not true at all. Instead, Neil burrows into Andrew's chest, uncaring that Nicky can see, and can't bring himself to say anything else.

Nicky signs off cheerily, saying he'll talk to Neil soon, and Neil's body hiccups in response.

He can't anymore.

He just can't avoid it, he won't.

Neil listens to the sound of Andrew placing his phone on the nightstand to charge, and then hears him shake one of the pill bottles, weighing when it'll be best to give Neil the next dose. The sound pisses him off.

He doesn't want medicine, he doesn't want to sleep.

Even as he thinks it, just resting against the pillow makes his limbs feel heavy, dragged underwater by rocks. It's so easy to give into the lull, to the noise around him blending together into blurbs and nonsense. Funny enough, it's Andrew's touch that snaps him out of it.

It's typically the last push Neil needs before falling back under, but this time when Andrew's thumb lingers over Neil's face, tracing the shell of his ear, Neil can't put it off any longer.

Maybe it's how much he loves that touch, how much it means to him. He's not sure. He just knows he has to get a reaction, he wants Andrew to _see_ him.

Neil moves to shift, and the inevitable happens. Andrew's hand darts out to stop him, already beginning the gentle process of rolling Neil over himself. That's when Neil tenses, staring up at Andrew with defiance in his eyes.

The blond is wearing a tank top, muscles on full display, so Neil catches the exact moment Andrew freezes up, shoulders coiled in preparation for a fight. Neil would smirk in any other situation; he'd never hurt Andrew, but his being never ceases to scream: _threat_.

In Andrew's case, Neil has the power to bare down on his throat, spilling all his emotions onto the clean sheets.

Andrew's eyes, so tired and dark, spark to life. Yes, Neil thinks. _That's what I want, come back to me._

But Andrew's expression is one of warning, one that says _'I don't want to talk about it.'_

Neil can't hold off anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, Neil moves again, and winces at the pain that shoots up his body. Andrew clamps down on his waist, stopping him, and then pushes down again for extra reinforcement. The gesture yells at Neil to stop, to not do this, but that just makes Neil squirm more.

" _Neil_ ," Andrew warns, breaking their eye contact. Neil can't help but glare; he feels like he's been doing almost nothing but staring at Andrew, taking in the contours of his face and the faded freckles leftover from summer. Any little detail, Neil has latched on. His memory is nothing like Andrew's, but he's sure he'd be able to recount every mole and curve if asked. It might mean nothing if he's six feet under. There will be no one in the afterlife for him to tell, to remind, but he's Neil Josten. He's stubborn as all hell, and won't let himself forget even something as minor as the crooked line of Andrew's nose.

Yet, Andrew won't look at him, won't address the hurt bubbling in his chest, just as strong as Neil's. That's not what they do anymore; they've always shared, and this will not be the exception.

Neil pushes Andrew's hands away and moves, but okay...he's not the smartest. That time _hurts_ , and Neil's wince turns into a full-on groan.

But it's fine, he thinks, not laughing at the joke. It's fine, because it's the last straw.

Andrew rips the excess blankets off the bed, kneeling onto the mattress until he's boxing Neil in, but it's less an intimidation tactic than a request. _Stay, stay right there_. When he speaks, it's a horrible mix of anger and desperation, a calmness cracked clean in half. "Stop trying to move, and stop fucking _staring_ at me," Andrew says, and Neil shakes his head.

"There's no point--" Neil tries, willing Andrew to understand what he's talking about. But oh, from the way the blond flinches, Neil knows he does. "I'm going to try to fight however I can, but—"

A hand claps over his mouth, and Andrew's capacity for gentleness is fraying. Neil knows it's his fault, but he doesn't mind. He wants Andrew to show him whatever he's feeling, even if they both hate it. Andrew looks down at him, and Neil catches the slip up. The way Andrew's gaze traces over the top of Neil's nose, the shape of his brows. Taking everything in, just to make sure his perfect memory got nothing wrong.

Realizing this, Andrew scowls, and buries his face in Neil's neck to stop the urge.

Andrew is careful in his panic regardless, maneuvering so he's not pressing down on Neil too hard. His legs are angled away but unwilling to release Neil completely for fear of him hurting himself more. Neil sighs, relaxing his muscles in a show of surrender.

Okay. He won't move anymore.

"Hey..." Neil whispers into the quiet Andrew leaves in the wake of his smothered rage, raising his hand slowly to card through the blond's hair. It's textured and unkempt, but Neil missed the feel of it. He's no stranger to comforting Andrew, but the blond hasn't let him do as much in the last few days.

Neil presses down on Andrew's neck when his panting starts to dissipate, and counts the cars that pass outside on the street below.

"I can't stand that look on your face," Andrew states eventually, and he turns his head to the side so his voice is clear. Nothing unheard. "Like you're giving up. Like you're trying to take me in for the last time."

_Like it's thank you, goodbye._

Andrew would know that look well, Neil supposes.

Neil cannot accept it. The hurt burns through his vocal cords at the vulnerability, apparent even through Andrew's neutral tone; he never wants Andrew to feel like that, but he also wants Andrew to be _alive_. Prosperous. "You're the one always championing rationality. You know things aren't fair, but now what?" Neil whispers, and his fingers halt in their ministrations, cramping up from the weight of it all. He finally chokes on a sob. "Just because it's me? You can't accept it?"

Andrew surges up, unable to avoid it any longer. His hands come up around Neil's face, digging into old scars. Those problems feel so old now.

" _Nothing_ is going to happen to you," Andrew spits out, and Neil's skull vibrates from the force of the grip.

"You can't promise that anymore," Neil says, but he can't shake his head when Andrew is holding him so tight. Andrew scowls down at him, and a loud noise from outside makes them both jump. Neil's panic filters in, rushed like he's on a countdown all over again. "They're going to come. They're going to take me away."

He bites back adding: _'and you're going to let them.'_

He knows that's unrealistic to ask and stupid to assume, but Andrew must hear the insinuation anyways.

There's a long pause, broken up only by Andrew's humorless laugh. It sends shivers down Neil's spine. Dark, lifeless. Neil doesn't miss that sound. He knows what Andrew's real laugh is like.

"Are they?" Andrew asks, tone razor sharp. Despite this, his grip lessens, thumb gently swiping over the nearest burn mark. "Neil, you must not know me as well as I thought."

It's selfish, Neil knows that much. It's selfish to ask Andrew to let him be the sacrificial lamb again. It's not how they do things, it's not what Neil promised. But he doesn't want a world without Andrew, even if he's no longer in it with him.

"Andrew..." He tries, but it's fruitless. Andrew rolls over and adjusts Neil carefully, pulling him up so as to not cause anymore of the mind-numbing pain from earlier. Neil fits so easily against him, and he doesn't fight it this time.

He's so tired of fighting, if it can be called that. In the end it's just the two of them doing what they always do: stubbornly holding onto one another. It's mutual, wanted, and Neil was shortsighted to think Andrew ever saw this gesture as detrimental.

At a certain point...he guesses it's just love.

And that makes him hold on even tighter.

"You're not going anywhere," Andrew reminds, and pries Neil's fingers off his shirt one by one until he can lace their hands together. Neil hadn't realized he'd been physically echoing his wants, stretching out the fabric til it's warped. "Stop it."

Neil laughs at the familiarity of it. It's breathy, and it soon gets swallowed up by the sounds of the covers as he burrows in closer.

This is just how it'll be.

Neil won't convince Andrew to accept it, but that's alright. He'll just have to do what he can when his fate arrives at their door. If he had it his way though, he'd sit like this forever, with Andrew so close and _real_.

A few more calls pass after Neil naps, and it's Renee who finally stands up to Andrew in her own way. He should've seen that coming. No one else would be quite as acquainted with darkness, with the cruelty of the world.

She's finishing up telling Neil about the book she's been reading, and her goodbye trails off. "Just..." She whispers, smiling in the same old way. Yet, her next words are nothing like the pragmatic Renee he's come to appreciate. He guesses everyone has their limits. "Don't go, Neil."

Neil's face falls, and he says nothing. There's nothing _to_ say, and she nods. Neil doesn't have time to think of anything else though, because Andrew doesn't allow the call to continue.

Stiffly, he leans forward to disconnect the phone. "Goodbye Renee."

The dismissal is firm, but Renee's smile remains until the very last moment.

Neil is grateful, knowing someone will be around who gets it.

Andrew says nothing, busying himself with Neil's blankets, and Neil prods at him until he stops. "You have to forgive her."

"I don't have to do anything," Andrew reminds, fluffing Neil's pillow. Or...more like punching it. Neil sincerely hopes they don't spar anytime in the near future. "She shouldn't have said that."

"She said it because she knew she'd be the only one who could," Neil says, and Andrew's silence is telling.

_Because you'll need her._

Renee is too important for Andrew to cut off long term, even if he hates that she can see what he refuses to. She'll be there for him, no matter what.

Thinking he'll get no reply for all his trouble, Neil leans back onto the newly fluffed pillow and startles when Andrew speaks again.

The blond's hand slides over his waist, fitting Neil against him snugly before rolling onto his back again. He's never not watching the door.

"Tell me something," Andrew starts.

"Always."

Andrew rolls his eyes at the sentiment, but meets Neil's gaze. Neil wrinkles his nose in the way that usually makes Andrew kiss him, but no such luck. Ah, so it won't be a fun question.

Andrew searches for a long time, the way he does to make sure Neil won't lie.

Right now, Neil wouldn't dream of it.

"Why now?" Andrew asks, and holds up his finger at Neil's confusion. "My scared little rabbit, always afraid of being caught by the wolf. Death is staring you down, but when you saw those x-rays, there was no panic."

Neil slumps a little more, turning just enough to avoid being scolded; he doesn't need the reminder, he feels the emotions fly back into him. In the moment, he'd simply felt resignation. He recalled his plans of course, as clipped and disorganized as they were given what happened. Ways he can appeal to Ichirou, ways he can prove his worth that don't involve his game.

There was no immediate panic sure, because there's only so many ways this can go.

But there was _fear_.

He doesn't question why for very long, since the answer is lying right next to him, breath held and waiting.

Slowly, Neil rests his hand over Andrew's heart, and feels the pace pick up almost instantly. Alive, pumping, never stopping. Andrew has been a constant for so many years, and he's a survivor, just like Neil. He has so much to offer, so much Neil appreciates and admires about him. He thinks of every touch and kiss, all the flicks of Andrew's fingers and deliberate presses into his skin.

Neil's hand curls into a fist, and he's fixated even now, right where his skin meets Andrew's. "I'm not scared of dying anymore, about someone chopping me up and ending all my potential."

He'd reached his potential. He'd helped score the winning goal at the Olympics, he was in the hall of fame. He's won countless championships.

"Andrew, I'm just terrified of leaving you here," Neil says with a great amount of strain, face contorting at the thought. An ugly, overprotective snarl, but not nearly as threatening as usual. It dissolves soon into something far more pitiful and packed with yearning. "Of not being with you."

"Stop," Andrew says again, more urgent this time. Neil can't even point out how predictable he's becoming, how his threats mean nothing these days. Andrew is aware, he just can't help it. It's the only way he can fight those thoughts of Neil's, and it's still not enough. Andrew's arms tremble as they wrap around Neil, a fortress. He's in a cocoon, safe from anything the world can throw at him. Andrew's rage is palpable, and once again, there's nothing to take out his helplessness on. So he repeats and repeats: "Just stop."

And there's that unspoken promise Neil can't refute, no matter how many things are trying to prove it otherwise.

_"Nothing could ever take you away from me."_

And with that ringing in his head, Neil falls under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONT HATE ME FOR THE CLIFFHANGER 
> 
> Again I'll figure out when to update ffff, also wanna say I'm fully aware I was vague about neil's injury and that the medical care here is not accurate shhh tis but a lowly fanfic
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I'll see you soon! ^^


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! I delayed this a bit from last week just because I honestly felt like I've been posting too much *sweats* but I felt bad for the cliffhanger so here we go! Thanks for all the support and thoughtful words last chapter, ilu all! 
> 
> Big thanks to [EmeraldWaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaves/pseuds/EmeraldWaves) for reading this over!

Rayah hands him tissues, but Neil passes them back.

She needs them.

Blake too, from the snot he's trying to wipe on the back of his hand. Weird, how Neil doesn't necessarily view this as a fond memory, or even the most important one he has to offer. It happened though, but he sees it more as a halfway point.

His journey with Andrew had really only begun, and he hadn't even known. So much time left, not infinite, but _vast_.

"You must've been so afraid," Rayah says, blowing into the tissue enough for Neil to lean back. He's glad they're there to break up the memory, he's become weak in his old age. Memories of the past can't come back to hurt him, Andrew taught him that.

Still, they can feel like barbed wire around his throat.

"I was," Neil affirms, checking his watch. Sydney will be due back soon, he can't linger much longer. "Andrew's reaction then was almost worse than the one on the court. Andrew was never violent with me, but I'd seen him lose control, I'd seen his rage. It had been so long...that was the first time in a long time he really looked like he wanted to tear the world apart."

Neil finally had a vague idea of what Baltimore was like for everyone else, and he finds himself grinning down at his hands.

"Funny, I was so worried about leaving Andrew," Neil mentions, and watches both Blake and Rayah freeze. When had they started hanging onto his words? He shakes his head, touching the watch on his wrist. "But now I'm here."

At their sad faces, he corrects himself, holding up his hands with a laugh. "No no, I don't see it the way I saw it then!" In fact, he sees it more how Andrew saw it. There was no way for them to be apart after everything they'd been through together. Neil's smile fades, his words serious, and he moves the recorder a little closer. His voice is crystal clear when he says: "Andrew didn't leave me. I was not abandoned."

He could never be abandoned by Andrew. Andrew helped him be at a place where he could never feel that way, and he did the same in return for Andrew. Had Neil gone first, he knows the blond would've managed in much the same way. As much as he would've mourned, he would've had his brother, the rest of their family. All of Neil's excessive Palmetto merch and memorabilia to look after...

They were never each other's answers, just something they didn't want to be without.

"I think I actually ended up being kind of happy, not _when_ he died but later. Andrew's final act was a selfish one. He didn't want to be here without me, so he made sure it wouldn't happen."

Neil finds himself feeling smug, despite his aching. Andrew was someone who always did things for others, despite what he tried to convince people of. Knowing his last act was completely for himself...

Neil couldn't be prouder.

Okay, so he's not going to be able to remain strong. Neil grabs the tissues petulantly, overcome with it. He blames Andrew. "The bastard."

They look away out of respect while he sorts himself out, hands clasped.

Rayah's mascara smears a little when she goes to wipe her red eyes, sticky on her finger, and Blake is so engrossed he doesn't notice when she wipes it against his clean white shirt. He leans forward after a moment, and Neil isn't surprised. A reporter's curiosity is never sated. There's a fire in his eyes, urging Neil on. "What happened next?"

Ha. Now isn't that an interesting question?

Regardless of how terrified Neil felt in the moment, his smile has a smug edge to it when he recalls the night _he_ arrived, the sound of a cane echoing at the back of Neil's head.

He leans back, and keeps his voice low. "They did eventually come."

\--

One night, just as time bleeds over into the next day, there's a click of a lock that reverberates through their entire flat.

Neil instantly knows; the click is akin to a gunshot, a timer going off. No more hiding, nowhere to run.

At least Neil still has some of his reflexes.

Andrew shoots up, knife in hand in half a second, and Neil grabs his own legs like they can save him one last time. No, not himself, Andrew.

His legs, still wrapped up and healing, are not nearly ready for any excessive movements. Neil doesn't care; he throws them over Andrew as quick as he can, and cries out when they land.

It's excruciating.

Movement shouldn't be possible, but Neil has never listened to doctor's orders. The pain is the consequence; it's a blow torch on his tendons, searing every nerve and joint it can. His scream breaks off into strangled gasps, and he feels Andrew halt completely.

It's a dirty trick, but necessary.

Andrew's scowl is almost worse than the blaze of his joints, but Neil doesn't back down. He doesn't weigh much; Andrew could throw him aside with ease. But he won't. Neil's legs are pushed firmly in his lap, resting against his abdomen, pinning Andrew between his own body and the headboard.

There's no way to lunge without hurting Neil, and despite the way Andrew must be weighing the pros and cons of it in his head, Neil is his weak spot. Andrew edges forward in warning, but Neil digs his heels in and whimpers.

"Andrew," he pleads, and the sound from Andrew's throat makes him feel sick.

"Fuck _off,_ Neil," he replies, teeth bared. It's unfair, he gets it. Andrew never got to fight, last time he didn't even know Neil would be taken away. But Neil can't, he just can't--

" _No_."

_Stay down._

Neil wants Andrew to let him fight first, let him try his luck one more time. Andrew's scathing response is cut short by tap of shoes on their hardwood, and they silence themselves, fixated on the door.

Ichirou never follows anyone's schedule but his own. He walks leisurely, calm, and without care for the panic he's caused. His cane clicks offbeat with his footsteps, the sound disjointed and not nearly as polished as the rest of him usually seems.

Neil watches the shadow on the wall grow larger and more distorted, until it finally forms the thin silhouette of the reaper himself.

He never got tired of silk suits, Neil notes. They fit a little better now though; Ichirou has filled them in, not just physically. Neil forgets how young he is, it's been so long since they've seen each other, but he remembers how even someone as menacing and cold as Ichirou had looked new, not yet settled into his role.

That Ichirou is gone.

He walks into the room, ramrod straight and poised, with an air of superiority not many people other than himself and perhaps Allison Reynolds can pull off. It nearly has Neil turning to face him, but he won't, for sake of letting Andrew loose.

Andrew snarls under his breath, but Ichirou's entrance into the room, while dramatic, isn't anything particularly foreboding. In fact, he grabs one of their crappy folding chairs, one Neil's physical therapist uses, and drags it across the room after some consideration. It throws Neil off almost immediately, and the subtle scrape of the chair legs grate on his nerves. However, he hopes it means Ichirou is here to talk.

While Neil knew realistically that would happen, a swift execution wouldn't have surprised him.

Ichirou places the chair down a few feet from them, and the thump of it puts a silencer on the world around them. The street below doesn't dare make a peep. Ichirou regards their positions with an edge of amusement, but lingers on Neil's legs.

"I'll admit I did not know what to expect," he speaks, and his voice reminds Neil of the embers of a fire. Grave, subdued, and ready to be stroked into something far more devastating.

"Lord," Neil replies, and he bows his head despite how much it makes the lump in his throat all the more constricting. "I've been waiting for you."

"I'm sure you have." Ichirou gestures to Neil's legs calmly, and leaves his hand hanging there until Neil looks. Salt in the wound, but Neil does it. "Your father would be happy."

Fury and resentment spike in Neil's chest, and while it may bleed onto his face, it's not much compared to how Andrew tries to lunge forward. All it takes is Neil's wince to stop him, to send him reeling back and torn between checking on him and not taking his eyes off Ichirou.

Neil is glad for his forethought; he wants Andrew to be safe, but even he can't be completely passive. Neil scowls, letting some of the respect melt away.

He can't help it. The cold smile is on his face before he means it to be, and Ichirou inhales sharply. Neil wonders if it's an acknowledgement of one of his own. "Well he's dead, so we'll never know."

_He's dead and rotting somewhere, insignificant._

Even when he's hanging on by a thread himself, Neil's comforted by the memory.

Ichirou's eyes narrow, but it's not a threat in his eyes.

"Someone's feeling bold, though I suppose you always are," he says, humming in the back of his throat. "So close to death all your life, nothing to lose. You've never needed my presence to know that."

Neil bites back all he could say, all the things about his life Ichirou wouldn't care about or label as valuable. He has everything to lose now.

"Lord, I know I'm in no position to ask for favors," he says, and Ichirou nods in agreement. Neil's worth and investment potential have run out, if they're going by the bare bones of his contract. Before he can think better of it, he prioritizes what's important. His voice takes on a desperate edge, a critical mistake in front of someone like Ichirou, but unavoidable. "I'm prepared to make my case but—but leave Andrew out of this. He's not—"

A hand finds the back of his neck and squeezes; it's not painful, never painful, but it startles him enough to make him choke on the rest. Andrew's tone rattles against his brain, warning. "If you try to be a martyr in front of me, I'll kill you before he even gets the chance," Andrew bites at him, and Neil glares at the lie. Always a bad liar. But without acknowledging that, Andrew whips around to Ichirou, and his threat has Neil's blood solidifying. On ice, already. "And _you_ , get out of our house."

Neil's hand flies up to squeeze the blond's arm, but he doesn't have the strength to do much. _"Andrew."_

Ichirou just chuckles, amused as Neil has ever seen him. Instead of threatening Andrew in return or silencing him right then and there, he leans back in the chair, regarding them like they're some species he's never heard of. "You're lucky I'm not here for you. I'm willing to overlook your rudeness because of what I need to say."

Ichirou doesn't so much as glance at Andrew while he says it, nor anytime after, and Neil feels the blond's trembling pour into him. He straightens, watching the careful tap of Ichirou's finger on the cane, and refuses to let himself jolt when those eyes meet his. Darkness meets an ocean blue, and Neil is thankful for the resemblance to his father now. He hopes Ichirou has just as much trouble navigating the sea of his mind, in finding what's locked away.

"Nathaniel," Ichirou begins, then tilts his head. A correction, one that makes Neil hold his breath. "Neil. Given the circumstances, I'm willing to confess a little here. You've always been an enigma to me. For a long time, I did not know whether to label you as a disgusting leech, or the wolf in the henhouse. Or maybe fox is more appropriate. Either way, you're a particularly giant, conniving thorn in my side."

_Good_ , Neil thinks. He never wants to be that known, that easy to pick apart. He never saw himself as a threat though, regardless of his potential, his willingness to claw and bite. Yet, he never took any pleasure in the pain of others unless they deserved it. That was a big difference between him and his father, something that's perhaps hard for Ichirou to wrap his head around.

Neil never asked him before, he realizes. What did Ichirou think of The Butcher?

As if hearing Neil thinking too hard, Ichirou's eyes pierce through him, holding the thoughts hostage, pinning to a wall.

"There's blood on your hands wherever you go," Ichirou muses. "There are nights where I think I should've killed you. You're too dangerous to be let loose, to be kept alive and constantly bearing down on my throat when I don't even realize it. _You_ are the riskiest investment I ever made, and your retirement should be nothing more than an act of charity from the powers above."

Ichirou looks to his cane then, and taps it once, twice against the floor. "I wonder."

He sits there a beat too long to be comfortable, and that's when he reaches into his suit pocket, as if having made up his mind. All Neil sees is the gun, from that point on.

The air in his lungs is ripped clean out, and that's appropriate. He feels like a husk, with Andrew's pleas in his ear to let him up, _now Neil, now_. But Neil's mind ignores it all, voice tiny and wheezing. "Lord," he tries, but has no idea what to say. "I--"

What? What does he want?

It's the simplest, most pathetic thing. But all he can think is: _not in front of Andrew_.

Yes, that's it. Neil's panic flares, and it's not his rabbit instincts for once. He doesn't want to be home anymore. He doesn't want to ruin this place they built together, the place they made their home with all their pictures and souvenirs.

He's an _idiot_ , what was he thinking?

He opens his mouth to say as much, and stops short when Ichirou places the gun on his knee. Andrew's gaze tries to melt the thing until it’s molten, and he's just getting more and more frustrated when that doesn't happen. It's still shiny, and very much there. It's so elegant, so unassuming, for being a deliverer of death.

Andrew keeps trying to make Neil budge, to at least move in front of him like a shield, but Neil refuses. His legs cry out in agony, but he'll ignore it until his last breath.

"I'm not done," Ichirou says, and points the gun at them both for good measure before it's back at his side. Neil tracks it up until Ichirou slams his cane on the hardwood, and pulls Neil's gaze back to him. There's a resignation in his gaze Neil doesn't know what to do with, a question not even Neil can parse. And if he can't understand the weight of this, who can?

"I could finally be rid of you. I could wipe the slate clean of yet another risk. You are the only one who threatens me."

Neil bites his tongue; Ichirou's only half speaking to him. Neil wants to argue he would never, there's nothing about that life, the one Ichirou leads, that Neil could want to steal away.

But Ichirou has to know that. Maybe that's the thing he can't wrap his head around, what makes Neil dangerous.

"But it just so happens that some of that blood on your hands was beneficial to me," Ichirou admits, huffing to himself. "Without you and the stress you put on my family's contacts, the animosity towards Riko...I may not have this throne of mine."

Neil chokes on the realization of where this is leading, but doesn't dare to let himself expect it.

Ichirou leans back again, and takes him in with nothing short of disdain. It's the most expressive Neil has ever seen him, the cool veneer stripped away.

"Make no mistake, I am not giving you credit, not even an ounce of it," Ichirou spits out, then he closes his eyes, breathing in to regain a shred of the composure he had when he walked in. Neil doesn't care, he's too busy staring at the furrow in his brow, at the retreating gun. Ichirou's eyes meet his and they're blazing, but the ring of fire doesn't scathe him. Neil seems to be the one point it can't reach. "You don't deserve it. But with your father gone, with my enemies and all those squabbling liabilities rotting in the ground...I can move freely."

He puts away the gun, as slow and conflicted as the movement is. But it's gone. Hidden. Neil's last stroke of luck. May he never be in need of more.

Andrew sneers, unable to help himself. "That sounds like plenty of credit is due."

Any other moment, Neil would wheeze, would fear retaliation. But Ichirou's just shown him his decision, a mind made up. He won't go back on it once he's crossed that line. It's not in his nature.

Funny. No matter how depraved the code of ethics is, it's still there, clean and outlined.

Ichirou stands, contempt clear as he stares down at them. "Think of this as repayment instead, a courtesy if you will," he mutters. "This will close out our account officially. There are some terms. I'll be happy to take that remaining 80% of your pension, your severance, but after? I want nothing to do with you."

The last syllable is laced with thin disgust, but then Ichirou retreats back into himself. The mask returns, an icy veil which emotions don't stand a chance against.

And well, Neil's always been a little stupid. He exhales shakily, his lungs aching from being so deprived. "You...you're letting me go?"

"I'm letting you become someone else's burden," Ichirou glances at Andrew, at the way his fists are still clenched around Neil. "But do not think me merciful."

He could never.

He understands their relationship, or rather, the end of it. That doesn't stop Ichirou from making it exceedingly clear.

His voice fills the room, coating the walls and staining it. It's not as bad as blood, but it's a promise Neil won't soon remove, a reminder that if he wants to keep this home of his, he'll listen. "I’ll extend the courtesy to your companions if they’re ever in the same situation. But if I ever see you again, if I hear that you're involved in anything, from the smallest transaction or negotiation in my circle, in my empire, I will kill you all," Ichirou explains, a vow. Then, his gaze flickers over Andrew one last time, and yes, Neil understands perfectly. He shows it in the way he glares, in the way he calls on his father's ghost one last time. "I will do more than kill you, I will destroy everything about you."

The fear begins to trickle out of him, and maybe that's a bad thing where Neil is concerned. He's not sure what he's exuding right then, but he can feel himself stop shaking, can feel his chin tilt up in a challenge. It's a deceptive calm, but one Ichirou will read correctly.

Acknowledgement, respect, but underneath all that it's a boast. It says _I won_.

Neil's not sure it can be called that but he owns it, with all his infuriating confidence, he owns it, and makes sure Ichirou knows there will always be some truth to it.

Even if Neil didn't have to convince him, even if Ichirou came to the conclusion all on his own.

He was bested, and Neil has to squash the smile that wants to bloom on his face.

Andrew stops shaking too, his rage reigned in for now. He probably won't sleep for days regardless; the fear, the what ifs...they're too fresh and heavy.

But that's alright. More than alright. Because Neil can spend the rest of their lives making it up to him.

"Do we have a deal?" Ichirou states, like he needs to. But Neil nods anyways. It's a farewell he didn't know he wanted so badly.

"Yes, we do," he says, and adds reluctantly: "Thank you, Lord."

Ichirou inclines his head, and Neil has to bite back any sass. It's a look that says ' _don't thank me yet. Don't thank me until you're old and gray.'_

With that final warning, Ichirou turns away, and neither of them dare to move.

That's where the acknowledgement ends; Ichirou reaches the door, and without looking back, solidifies his exit from Neil's life.

"Goodbye, Neil Josten."

They don't move at first. They listen to the disjointed steps as Ichirou leaves, and only when it sinks in that he's walking away does Neil feel Andrew pull him gently closer. It's a fierce hold regardless, an attempt to carve Neil a place in his chest to hide. It's 'I've got you' and 'I get to keep you' all at once.

When the lock on their front door clicks shut, the one to Neil's future opens wide.

\--

Neil lets Blake and Rayah take their time scribbling their notes, neither of them daring to ask for clarification. Neil hopes it's because there's nothing _to_ clarify.

It's too simplistic to say he won some climactic battle, that the rest of his life was carefree and happy. This was merely a pause in his life, a blip in time which also passed like everything else, drowned out with visits to Germany and difficult trips to the vet.

Neil doesn't view it as the middle, or a turning point. He doesn't view anything that way. He started his life as Neil Josten and it flowed from there, choppy and untamed at times, but no less...memorable.

His encounter with Ichirou was a moment he had to wait, to breathe in and take in what he had before he kept going. A log or dam that eventually eroded away like the rest of the obstacles he faced.

And there was so, so much more that came after that.

Perhaps not as exciting; family vacations, Exy games, and weekend getaways are hardly anything compared to run-ins with the mafia, to devastating injuries and comebacks. No one wants to hear about the petty arguments and compromises, the bouts of depression which came from being robbed of the sport he loved despite his survival. There's nothing _riveting_ about the quiet dinners Neil enjoyed with Andrew at his side every night for over thirty years after.

But even still, he's waiting to get to those. He wants to talk about _those_.

Each time he finishes a memory, he's antsy to tell the next one. It's the most exciting thing to him, knowing that even when it all stops, when he has nothing more he needs to share, that nothing ever _ended_. He could go on and on. As long as he’s breathing, he can say more.

It doesn't end until he's gone, and how sneaky he is, how brilliant, for even going beyond that to preserve their life, every boring piece of it.

He sends Andrew a smug little smile, just for that.

So now people can know, for at least a few years to come, that yes, Neil Josten survived the mafia. But more importantly, Andrew Minyard was next to him, and was just about the best companion Neil could've asked for.

It makes him smile, uncontrolled in its entirety, and when Sydney walks in she doesn't even ask. She returns it, and that fondness makes Neil feel as if Andrew is still in the room, because it was so often directed at him as well.

When she leaves, the room is quiet apart from the last fading scratches of pen on paper.

Occasionally one of the reporters will look up at him, scan him as if they can get the residual emotions hanging from his aura and paste them onto the messy pages.

Neil doesn't envy them.

He's never been a writer, and he's giving them a daunting task. Vague, but detailed. Powerful, but without all the flowery, over-exaggerated nonsense. This is not a sensationalist piece, but his life, and while they've been treating him with the respect he asked for, he gets the feeling they just now came to the realization fully.

It's easy to say you love someone, at the end of the day. Even if it's a lie, even if it takes you a while to work up the courage for it. It's easy to repeat it over and over again.

But for people to understand the full scope of Neil's feelings, so far beyond _that_ word with all the strange deviations and intricacies...

Well, he can tell by the way Rayah and Blake come to a standstill, eyes fixed on their notes, that they do understand. That's what makes it so difficult, that's what makes it impossible.

Nothing they do or write will truly replicate the way Neil has made them feel, the way Andrew made Neil _feel_.

And Neil's grateful for that. He's grateful, because he always knew deep down that his relationship with Andrew was not something anyone would be able to capture and define. It was theirs.

As long as that's obvious, then he thinks it'll be more than okay.

He'll keep providing all the details they need to compensate.

Eventually, when they do look up, Rayah just laughs, smoothing her hand over the paper. Neither of them make a move for their food. "I—I don't know what to ask anymore?" She frames it as a question, tone searching, and when she looks at Blake, he merely shrugs.

There's a mistiness in his eyes when he turns to Neil too, as if to ask, _'well?'_

Neil beams brighter, bringing his food in front of him. Ten years and he hasn't changed the order. It's still the plate he and Andrew split.

And with that warmth in his chest, he's more than happy to take it from there.

"Don't worry," he says, amusement lacing his tone. "I know what comes next."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd the angst train stops for now lol! I was planning on doing a chapter or 2 of just pure fluff to make up for this, but I'm torn about the memories to include. If you have any suggestions of moments you want to see, please comment them below! I'll take them into consideration when I write the next chapter ^^ I'd appreciate it immensely too ; ;
> 
> Again, thanks so much for reading, you're all the best <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....hi  
> okay so I can explain!! not really though, this fic is just really difficult to write tbh as much as I love it, it's so self indulgent and really I'm catering it so close to my tastes, but for some reason that makes it take forever ppftt I'm trying to use nano to update it and get through as much as possible tho! so...hopefully...update soon? 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this addition, the fluff chapter I promised before got kinda pushed back and morphed into this one, bc I wasnt done talking about neil's healing I guess ^^
> 
> Big thanks to Stjosten and EmeraldWaves for looking this over for me <3

Neil is not ashamed to say that he thinks he screams louder than the actual cheerleaders at the stadium.

He no longer sits in the VIP Box because of it; it's too far away, and he can't read Andrew completely from so high up. He hates looking at the flat screen in the room; no matter how gigantic or quality the picture is, seeing Andrew in the flesh can't be compared. The pixels and camera can't capture the twitch of Andrew's hand when he dives, or the way he doesn't blink when he knows a shot is about to be fired in his direction.

But then again, they just don't know. How could they possibly pay the same amount of attention as he does? They don't know and don't care that Andrew tilts his head just so when he's about to make an impressive save, that he twirls his racquet when he's in the mood to show off.

Neil finds himself grinning throughout each and every game, and already at halftime, his cheeks burn. But that's fine too; Andrew will scold him later and massage the corner of his mouth until connecting with his own.

He'll give in, because he knows Neil's excitement is all his fault. Because ever since Neil retired, it seems that every game makes Andrew want to show off.

The crowd holds their breath around him as the opposing team's striker gets possession of the ball, and even from Neil's private seat in the stands, ground level, as close to the glass as he can get, he feels the weight of it. It's perhaps the part he misses most, that anticipation of a goal.

Or, it would be a goal. But it's Andrew.

The striker pulls back his racquet just as Andrew turns to Neil's spot in the stands, permanent and oh so routine. And it's not even arrogance, or pride. Andrew simply knows he can stop it, and he _will_ stop it, and only one thing matters after that. Neil can't see Andrew's eyes, but he can feel them, and for a moment, uncontrollable warmth surges through him. It follows the path of his arm, the muscle memory of a strike, digging into his shoulder blade until it flies from his fingertips. It feels tiresome, invigorating. It feels like hours and hours spent firing at Andrew's goal to no avail.

Neil's smile softens and he sighs; because he knows he has this at least. Even if he never plays again, Andrew gives his all for him.

Andrew inclines his head; _watch_. _This is for you._

And Neil doesn't have the time to feel his normal, complicated feelings about it. He doesn't have the time to remember that Andrew would quit if it weren't for him, that this doesn't bring him the same level of joy as it did for Neil and it never will. Neil doesn't wonder if it's finally time to ask Andrew if he wants to stop.

Instead, Neil just watches, and pins that for another time. That's one thing retirement has done to him, something positive in the swarm of complicated feelings. He has so much time, pleasant or otherwise.

And then as if the bubble is popped, Andrew turns back to the court.

It's mercilessly fast, a whip of air and a suspended sound that just doesn't translate. The ball shoots across yards and yards, until it's close to meeting the goal, and Andrew waits to catch it until the very last minute. It's so close to sounding the buzzer Neil hears some people behind him choke, but no, it's no hallucination.

Andrew catches it, and before anyone can register the nearly impossible save, Andrew is pulling his strong arms back to catapult the ball all the way to the other side of the court. One of their teammates catches it, and a second later, Neil hears the buzzer. Their score.

But he's hardly paying attention. Andrew spins his racquet in his hands and points at Neil with the end of it, and Neil shakes his head as he laughs and cheers. It's hard to not stand up.

Banging on the glass is frowned upon, but he can't really stomp his feet much anymore, less he get Andrew's disapproving glare, so he does it. He screams and shouts and makes as much noise as he can manage.

He's loud. He's always been loud in his celebrations, where he was painfully quiet everywhere else, and it's perhaps the only advantage of being forced out of the Exy world.

He's always been Andrew's biggest fan, and now he can prove it. It's only a bonus that it embarrasses Andrew greatly, since Neil wears his Minyard merch to every game and even has a little Andrew shark that sits in his lap. It reminds him to not stand up too much.

Neil senses Andrew's glare behind his face guard, and the blond shakes his head as if telling Neil to stay put. Neil smirks, and throws him a good luck salute.

_'Stop getting cocky at halftime.'_

_'Has it ever failed me before?'_

Neil hears the exchange from the previous game in his head, and smiles to himself fondly. He supposes Kevin was right back when they used to scold him; it's not arrogance if you're actually good.

And Andrew is better than good. Neil takes him in through the glass, at the way he leans against his racquet and digs his heel into the ground. All a facade, in Neil's opinion, the need to appear carefree and apathetic. In some ways, Andrew always would be, just never in the areas of life Neil is a part of.

Neil's just not capable of viewing Andrew as anything other than complex, so full of life. Neil's life; they're so intertwined at this point, there's no denying he's mixed in there. It's a mutual exchange. They can stand apart, but they choose not to.

Neil smirks as Andrew looks back at him; _can you sense I'm thinking stupid things again?_

From this angle, Neil can see even clearer. Andrew always has a laziness to him, but his body is anything but. He was strong in college, thick shoulders and back muscles Neil could trace ridges in. Neil thought back then, Andrew couldn't possibly get more impressive physically. But he'd been somewhat naive then, or maybe just dense, as everyone liked to say.

Age is apparent in Andrew now, and it has Neil burning in different ways. Broad shoulders are somehow even sturdier at the age of forty, able to not only hoist Neil up, but maybe even the world. Neil is too selfish to ask that of him though, and honestly, the world can fend for itself. Andrew is all Neil's.

Andrew's chest is firm, his waist thicker, fuller than it was. Andrew has little tolerance for the cold, but he always runs warm to Neil, and Neil cocoons himself in his body whenever he gets the chance.

_'You would make a good statue.'_

Neil had only said it once, and Andrew made him swear he never would again. Neil laughs to himself; he still thinks he's right. Even Andrew's wrinkles, put there on his forehead early due to all those years of frowning, are dignified in a way.

Neil likes the smile lines too.

Suddenly, his reddened hands itch for other reasons; they itch to graze against Andrew's face, his stubble. He's tired he finds, and tries not to dwell on it; going out like this takes more out of him than he likes to admit, even to Andrew.

But Andrew still views him the same, and treats him with respect _and_ care. Neil is strong, even if he sometimes needs help getting around, and Andrew has never made him feel like he wasn't.

Andrew is a doter, always has been, and he can't hide from it anymore. Not from the Foxes anyways. He's been thoroughly exposed, and Neil actually doesn't mind it. Took them long enough.

It brings the swirl of confusion to the forefront of his mind again; when the final buzzer goes off, everyone in the stadium jumps up, including Neil. It's the only time Neil allows it. The celebration and triumph is palpable in his veins and on the court; the team huddles, jumping and leaping, because this means they're one step closer to championships.

The crowd roars, and the chaos of the coaches and press flooding onto the court happens like it does every time, water flowing out of a dam.

Neil whistles and cheers, and as lighthearted as he is, as victorious as the air around him pools, he notes that Andrew stays off to the side this time too. He never celebrates anymore, hasn't for about a year. He's not nearly as affected; not unhappy, just subdued. Not that Andrew has ever been one for big celebrations, even when he _did_ come to enjoy Exy.

For a while, Neil believes he genuinely did. There was no more resentment, no more need to be contrary. Battling with Neil and Kevin on the court, Andrew solidified his reputation and his place in the hall of fame. He wouldn't huddle, but he would walk into center court, a part of it all.

No longer, and that's what Neil knows to be true.

Neil wants to go home at the end of a long day at the court, of watching Andrew shine and conquer. But Andrew never wants to leave home in the first place.

Finally, at forty, the end has settled around him. He would rather be with Neil in their home, passing the moments without glass between them.

It's all too apparent, and yet, the issue comes from a scenario Neil could've never dreamed of.

Andrew won't tell him.

Andrew, who has never been one to mince words or avoid the harsh inevitable, has avoided the subject at all costs. Neil can't figure it out; it clouds his mind, even as the smile remains.

Andrew stares at him from the goal, knowing he has to wait for more people to clear out before Neil can safely make his way to the parking structure.

He'll watch over him the entire time until then. Andrew doesn't move from his spot, not for press, not for anyone.

Slowly, Neil sits, his clapping fading until it's just their bubble again. Andrew really is a pillar of strength, standing there, chest heaving. But he doesn't have to be, if he doesn't want to. The season is almost over, they could go anywhere, do anything...

Neil sighs; he can sense a disagreement brewing, and that wouldn't be a problem if he knew what it was about. Disagreements are simple, they start, they end. They ride them out.

But Neil feels in the dark about this.

At first, he thought Andrew wanted to avoid a potentially difficult conversation. Maybe he thought Neil would be upset, or would try to convince him otherwise.

But he has to know that would never be the case; even if Neil would be a little sad at not being able to watch Andrew play, it's nothing in the grand scheme of things.

He has reruns. He has _Andrew_. Losing his own ability to play had been devastating, but he had not even thought about pushing those lost expectations onto his partner.

It hadn't crossed his mind.

He wants Andrew to do what he wants; that has never changed.

And Neil eventually reasoned with himself that Andrew _would_ know that, nothing in their years together pointed to any other conclusion. He trusts Neil, he's not afraid of him.

So the momentary hurt Neil felt fizzled and dissolved into nothing afterwards. But that still left him needing answers. Why didn't Andrew want to voice his intent to retire?

Neil had tried to hint at it...

_'Maybe we could go on vacation with Katelyn and Aaron on their Alaska trip.'_

_'That's during training season.'_

_'Well, if you plan to be there during training season...'_

_'Why wouldn't I be?'_

And Neil had dropped it, that niggling feeling burrowing deeper. He wasn't ready, because he wasn't sure where to even press or push to get the answer he wanted out of Andrew.

Because...there really _wasn't_ an answer he wanted. He just wanted Andrew to tell him the truth.

Neil thought it might be the financial strain. But then Andrew's fortieth year came, qualifying him for the full severance and pension, and that no longer made any sense either.

It's been months since that feeling settled in him, and the only conclusion he can think of is this: Andrew doesn't know what he wants to say either.

And well, if that's the case, Neil knows it's best to just wait until he does. It's hard to be patient with each other sometimes, but in this case, there's nothing imperative about it. The season will end and start back up again, and when Andrew is ready to make a decision, Neil will be there to listen.

When half the stands are empty, Andrew walks out and meets Neil at his spot; Neil hadn't wanted to go without him this time, his body had refused. Call him a sap. With how he'd been feeling, the thought of having Andrew so close and not waiting...

It had been a bit too much.

So yeah, he wants to walk with Andrew to the car, and even if they don't speak, he wants to feel the safety net bundle him up.

As if knowing it, Andrew shakes his head down at him, eyes shining in amusement, and smooths back his wet hair. Neil beams up at him as Andrew dips down, and in the familiar dance, Neil lets himself be hoisted up, taking his cane with him.

He doesn't use it as he walks all the way to the valet post, and he catches Andrew's critical stare the entire way. And ah, that's another entirely different conversation.

Andrew rolls his shoulders back, and the frustration goes with it, at least for the night, and Neil lets his heart beat rapidly until he worries it might burst.

When Neil stumbles the last few steps to the car door, Andrew grabs his hand, and doesn't let go the rest of the way.

\--

Neil knows Andrew's worry isn't unfounded.

Once the deal with Ichirou was settled, the weight of retirement finally had time to settle into Neil's bones, and it left searing aches in its wake. Perhaps he was too naive to think it wouldn't affect him so strongly. Losing the sport he loved had its consequences; he was grateful for his life, the rest of his days stretching in front of him with Andrew in step.

That didn't mean he didn't sometimes feel empty. And it almost wasn't about Exy, not completely. Yes, he missed the weight of a racquet in his hands, the exhilaration of running on the court and scoring an impossible goal. Exy had been his life, his routine. Without it, other things started to fall apart, to become painfully apparent.

His body clock naturally woke him up at the same time every morning, geared up for his morning run and training at the stadium. But when he woke up, he no longer had the leg strength or stamina to fly through three miles. He couldn't fill his lungs with air and know that his body wouldn't let him down.

There's something oddly devastating about not being able to trust one's body.

He knew he would eventually heal, that he would be able to run and jump and leap into Andrew's arms again. But it was such a long process, some days it seemed endless, sitting in the darkness of their bedroom.

Not that Andrew knew, or asked. Maybe he knew the entire time. In fact, Neil is almost positive he did. It couldn't be a coincidence, that every bad day ended up with Andrew taking Neil on a walk, or to a movie, or even to the thrift store.

He always told Andrew he kept himself busy. Some days he tried; he would walk down to the library or run their errands. He would go on beginner level hikes or binge television shows with Renee and Allison through his laptop.

He tried to take up cooking, and found that it was better if he never tried it again.

A lot of the time, it worked; he felt like he was finally finding a groove again, finding ways to enjoy himself that didn't involve Exy or waiting for Andrew.

But other days were hard, mornings especially. One nostalgic detail and he could be out all day, lost in the sea of restlessness and heavy limbs. It was like having growing pains without gaining an inch. His legs would be sore from a day of lazing around, and every twist of his spine cracked or pulled uncomfortably beneath his skin.

He'd never felt more exhausted, those days.

And the mornings would remind him of routines lost. There was no Andrew waiting for him in the car to drive them down to the stadium in the mornings, though he swore he still heard the purr of the engine from the parking structure below.

He would stare at the ceiling every morning until it was time for Andrew to leave; he'd begun to memorize his partner's routine for lack of his own. It made things better because, as resentful of his own state as Neil could get, he could never associate anything horrid with Andrew.

So he sighed when Andrew's alarm would go off, would relish in the feeling of Andrew's strong arm stretching across him to squeeze and glide over his body. Andrew's large hand would start at Neil's shoulder and drag from there, pausing over his heart as the blond groaned the exhaustion away.

Andrew, even half asleep, had to check to see that Neil was there, had to _feel_ him. And Neil would smile even when he felt like it would be a bad day, would find the strength to endure it in Andrew's kiss before he was off. And he let the sound of the shower lull him back into a sleep, and would count the minutes Andrew brushed his teeth to make sure he was doing it right. He needed it, after the previous night's dessert.

He never thought he could find comfort in the sound of a faucet, or the zippers of Andrew's jacket clinking as he put it on. But it was about the little things, all the way up until Andrew kissed him goodbye.

He wanted nothing more than to go with him, to just suck it up, grab his cane and keep Andrew company, even from the stands.

But he couldn't go. No, he _wouldn't_ go. Call it his own idiotic pride, his need to prove he could do this. Because it wasn't Andrew; all Neil had to do was ask, and he'd be back in the passenger seat in no time at all.

Instead, he subjected himself to staying put, and made things worse. Some days it felt like there was nothing for him once he got out of bed. So he started to think, why get out of bed at all?

All the bottled up resentment twisted him up inside like the branches of a dying tree, and there was no way he could go on that way unless he wanted to fall deeper into the abyss. Days spent in the guest bed instead of his own because he didn't want to plague Andrew with his tossing and turning, the zoning out, the fatigue...

He had to deal with it all, but it had only taken the constant reminder from Andrew and his own resilience to stay above water.

_'You are surviving. You are not losing.'_

Sometimes surviving could be painful; but if there's one thing he's learned about surviving, it's that he always manages to come out on the other end. So he kept going, until he no longer felt like a husk, until he started sleeping in, and getting up.

But, as he improved, as he got better, he began to channel all that rage and resentment towards one thing: the cane.

It was easy, why wouldn't it be?

Even looking at it now, the cane represents a reminder of his injury, of the state of him. He's not ashamed, and he's worked tirelessly with his therapist until he no longer viewed himself as weak or limited. He's not; he simply has to do things differently now.

Still, he is nothing if not stubborn. The hatred from before isn't there when he looks at the cane now, not the same degree of it anyways. But his feelings are too complex to ignore, too hard to let go of. The anger and spite lingers ever so slightly, and he reaches for the cane as little as possible.

He never saw it as that big of an issue. So he ends up a bit more out of breath when he walks for a while, so he has to lean on nearby pillars for support...

It's fine. He's fine.

Of course, Neil has no idea how intertwined his actions and Andrew's are until it all comes bursting at the seams.

"I'm thinking of retiring," Andrew finally says one day over breakfast. It's Wednesday, so they've ordered from the stupidly expensive five-star place down the block. After much discussion over the years, they've agreed Wednesdays are overrated and instead of being seen as a halfway marker, it should be viewed as nothing more than a tease. It was Andrew's new therapist who had suggested they turn the day into something to look forward to, instead of blindly hating it.

So, Wednesdays are fancy breakfast days.

The plain butter pancake, which Neil has a habit of stabbing and lifting into his mouth rather than cutting it up like a normal person, slides off his fork and flops onto his plate.

Neil blinks up at Andrew from across their shitty kitchen table; it's a relic from the early days, when they weren't being paid as much and Neil hadn't yet shaken his frugal nature. It's round and wobbly, but it somehow never breaks no matter how many times Neil has banged his fists against it while watching Exy games.

There's an A + N that Andrew still won't admit he carved into it.

Andrew stares at him, and it's the most unreadable he's been in almost two decades. The only giveaway that he's actually thinking behind the mask is the slight crease to his brow, but otherwise he's trained on Neil's reaction and Neil's reaction alone with no room for showing his own emotion.

Suddenly, Neil is aware of the wall between them.

It's not unfamiliar for it to be there, not when it matters most, when Andrew needs them both to step away and take things seriously. It doesn't make it easier; Neil knows this feeling, it's explicit denial of touch.

Andrew's expression amounts to this much: _stay right there and listen, I'll try to do the same._

Slowly, Neil sets his fork down and leans back into the chair, the special one Andrew bought him. It's a weird hybrid recliner, so Neil can put his feet up if he needs it.

Neil expected this conversation to come at pretty much any other time. It still _feels_ serious; the crepes and french toast between them don't change that. But the atmosphere is wrong. He feels like he should be having this discussion on a long drive down the country roads, or face to face in bed.

This really has been eating at Andrew; that's the only conclusion Neil can come to. Otherwise, he would've been a lot more careful in when he raised the topic, in how he approached it.

This...this is Andrew's rare word vomit.

But okay, Neil has no problem with that. He would take all of Andrew's weight, anywhere, anytime.

Neil squints across the table and lets the words wash over him. Retirement. What would retirement look like for Andrew?

Neil might laugh and joke in any other situation, imagining Andrew lounging on the beach with a sunburn and a margarita.

Instead, he wonders about routines, about sleeping in and staying out, flying to games and sitting in the VIP box _with_ Andrew, letting him raid the dessert cart and pay zero attention to the score while Neil rants.

Essentially...retirement is simply Andrew standing next to him. No change, just an adjustment.

_An adjustment, not an end._

He repeats his therapist's words in his head, as difficult as it can still be to not scoff at them, and finds he doesn't feel sadness. None of the complicated feelings he or Andrew may have anticipated are there, though that's not to say they'll never surface with time. But with everything that's happened, it's not the most daunting challenge he can think of.

Neil may even love it. He was never a fan of wandering, except when it was with Andrew.

So, Neil doesn't expect what comes next.

"Okay," he sighs, throwing off the shock as the realization settles in. They'll be retired. Together.

He smiles across the table, but doesn't cross the boundary in place to hold Andrew's hand, no matter how much he wants to. "Good," he breathes out, because he's never been able to express himself well. He curls his fist and stays put, despite the spring in his bones. Andrew isn't done yet, but there's something mischievous about knowing he will be soon. They can do whatever they want, go wherever they want, any time.

It _is_ good; they can make it that way, even if they have to go through not so good things to get there.

But then Andrew doesn't move.

It's like an aborted thought, like Neil responded too soon or Andrew couldn't speak fast enough. Neil watches the syrup soak through and sop up Andrew's waffles, and wonders if it's like wading through the sticky stuff.

Andrew swallows thickly and takes in every part of Neil, from his curled fist up to his face. It's in that moment Neil realizes there's more to it, there's more that's twisting Andrew up.

And really, should he be surprised, when there's been more twisting him up too?

Neil never asked for things to be easy with Andrew, or with his life; in fact, he's glad they're not. He never cared about that; they're both stubborn and difficult. Neil is impatient and paranoid, and sometimes Andrew thinks too long, too hard, and he forgets to let Neil in. But he eventually opens the door back up, and Neil eventually settles and sits still.

Neil's lips tick upwards, slightly smug.

_A man can only have so many issues._

Andrew glares across the table, and that's better than the blankness, about a thousand times better. Neil huffs a laugh, even in the safety of his own head, Andrew must have a sixth sense when it comes to his own words being thrown back at him. "There you are..."

And Neil doesn't mean to sound so fond. He's pretty sure they're about to fight. But through the frustration and silence there's always been a level of comfort, in knowing they could evoke each other's emotions so strongly, and they'd always meet again.

"Quit it," Andrew hisses through his teeth, and ah yes, fancy breakfast is definitely over.

"Then tell me," Neil bites back. Andrew continues to stew for another moment, twirling his fork in his hand. His smile falls, brow furrowing. While other people are accustomed to Andrew's silence, Neil is not. The fact Andrew brought this up and yet can't say more is cause for worry. Neil pushes, because in these situations, it's what he does best. He's downright annoying. "Andrew?"

Andrew closes his eyes and opens them again. Neil feels his sigh like a breeze through him, bracing. And then...

"Neil, I want to take it easy now," Andrew says, like it's so simple. Yes, Neil might say. That's the point of retiring. No more stress, no strife. And it may sound funny if it weren't laced with such a layer of vulnerability. Neil's expression falls further, eyes searching Andrew's for the end of the thread. Andrew keeps his voice low, but it's still so loud in the quiet of their apartment. "With you."

Neil shivers despite the tension in the room; it's promising, it's never enough. Time with Andrew...he'd gladly take more, he feels like an animal, hoarding time like food and supplies through a long winter. But Andrew's so fixated on him still.

Neil is familiar with this dance by now, knowing he'll say the wrong thing because he's slow, and Andrew will get upset before realizing he's been slow too.

So Neil isn't afraid to say the wrong thing anymore.

"Okay," he breathes, and watches for the moment Andrew's entire body tenses. The fork hits the table, and for some reason, Andrew's eyes flit to Neil's legs.

"That's all you have to say, is it," Andrew says, not really a question. Neil tucks his legs in, self-conscious, and Andrew raises his gaze again. "Just okay? You don't have any problems with that?"

It's the first thing that stings; Neil wouldn't blame Andrew, his own reputation precedes him. He has a habit of making things difficult for everyone, but that wouldn't be right, would it? Andrew has never seen him as a burden.

Neil things about his legs, about his injury, but it all comes up short. Being with Neil has been the opposite of 'taking it easy,' but that's not what Andrew is referring to at all. There's no resentment there.

Neil glares, because as much as he knows Andrew will lead him through the dark eventually, he hates being stuck in it. "What else is there to say? I'm...I'm glad, I—"

And then Andrew is pulling back from the initial mission entirely, withdrawing his forces, except it's less a battlefield and more of an assortment of crepes and scones. He stacks the plates precariously; his usual minimum is four, but he gets to six and doesn't stop. It's like he wants them to fall—no, he simply doesn't care if they do.

It's a distraction, something to do with his hands, and Neil huffs. And since he's a petty motherfucker, he keeps his plate out of Andrew's reach. "I can take it myself."

Andrew freezes.

A misconception Neil tended to point out about Andrew: he's not actually an angry person. It takes a lot to provoke a response, since petty rage and frustration is beneath him most of the time. But his genuine anger is nothing to be trifled with, and that's exactly what Neil is seeing now.

That one little statement is the thing which sets Andrew off, and Neil still can't connect the dots to save his life. It's not like he's trying to though, too fixated with his own anger.

He can take his own damn plate. He can clean up after himself and walk by himself and run and—

Andrew pulls back at Neil's glare, the fire in his own expression doused with water and extinguished for the time being. He stares at Neil's plate like it offends him, and lets the others go to cascade over the table in a disjointed jumble. Neither of them flinch at the noise of porcelain clanking together.

Neil's grip is harsh on his plate, for reasons he's not even sure of anymore.

Once a cornered animal, always a cornered animal. But Andrew's not the threat, he couldn't be. Instead it's something deep inside him, between them, hovering below the surface in wait.

Rather than be snapped up in its jaws in that very moment, when they're both unprepared, Andrew walks away.

Neil's response is instinctive. Having Andrew's back to him has always been a gift, a symbol of trust. Right now, it's the last thing he wants to see.

"Andrew," he calls, and doesn't mean to sound so desperate. Andrew can go the next room over, at most. Maybe they're both weak; Andrew's steps falter, the pull too strong. But Neil doesn't chase after him. He fixes his eyes on the back of Andrew's neck and sighs, knowing at this point there's nothing much to say. The space is probably necessary for them both, but it feels wrong to leave it like this. He reminds himself there's no need to press, because Andrew doesn't run from him. He'll crawl into bed at the end of the night and connect his hands around Neil's waist. They're fools like that. So, Neil puts his plate down softly, and reminds Andrew of what he already knows. "I can't understand if you don't tell me."

He can't make sense of his own feelings if he doesn't have Andrew's to fill in what he's missing. He's perhaps put himself in the dark too, all on accident.

 _You know I need it spelled out sometimes_ , Neil thinks with a smirk.

Andrew gives his own huff and turns halfway, not willing to let Neil see him quite yet. But his side profile is enough, and oh so nice any other day.

Neil grins, and hopes Andrew can feel it.

"I know that," Andrew states, and then he's walking away. "I'll figure it out."

It's the softest version of _leave me alone_ Andrew could probably manage, and Neil's grin falls. When he stands, he feels his legs vibrate from the tension building inside him, of the blood boiling beneath his skin.

And well, maybe it's best if Andrew stayed away too.

Neil tosses the mountain of Andrew's pancakes into the garbage, and tries not to cringe at the absolute waste of food. Sir and King frolic to eat up the bits of food that fell from the plates after Andrew's stunt, but Neil can't pay them any mind as he stares at the flowery patterns of his own plate.

Pettily, he throws the bits of bacon away. _See, nothing to it._

But it's not satisfying, not in the slightest.

His eyes follow Andrew's path to their study, hears the desktop boot up as Andrew types too aggressively, and the inklings of understanding begin to bleed in without him even noticing.

\--

The thing that people tend to miss is that Neil can be just as difficult as Andrew on any given day.

A few hours later, when Andrew walks into their bedroom, boots laced up and keys in his hand, Neil doesn't budge. He fixes his eyes on the far wall, and realizes he'd been sitting in the near darkness the entire time from how he has to squint. He crosses his arms for good measure, like Andrew doesn't find it cute instead of intimidating.

He hears Andrew sigh, and he swears it's almost fond, and then the keys in his hand jingle. Neil perks up like a dog and follows the sound, until his eyes meet the monstrosity of keychains and paper star charms. They clash with Andrews _everything_ , but the blond never bothered to get rid of the hideous add-ons.

"We're going on a drive," Andrew says, but doesn't turn to leave like he normally would, waiting for Neil to follow. He rarely does now, in case Neil needs help. But today he stays put and waits, hands stuffing themselves in the pockets of his old leather jacket. It's a bit tight on him now, and sometimes when Neil touches it, his hand comes back slightly black from the chipping fabric; but he loves that jacket.

Neil bites his lip and weighs the options, and that's when he sees it. Andrew has Neil's cane in his hand.

Oh, right. He left it at the table.

Neil glares. "Are we?"

It's probably unfair, but he thinks he can be a little unfair. He does love drives though...

When was the last time they'd taken a drive like this? To cope, to deal with issues they weren't ready to speak about?

Probably not since the first few years of their careers. There was simply less of a need, easier ways to get all the tension and energy out of their system.

 _Still_.

He turns away again and huffs, and then he hears Andrew sigh again. And oh no, that's definitely fond. The wooden floors creak as Andrew walks over to him, slow and steady, to let Neil stop him. But then Andrew is there, in his bubble, and it's so warm and safe with Andrew standing above him like a shield.

Resigned, Neil unfolds his arms and looks up at him, head hitting the backboard softly.

Andrew blinks down at him, and there's the ghost of a smile Neil is powerless against. But then, Andrew never does these things half-assed, no matter what he may make people believe. "Go on a drive with me, yes or no?"

He must be a dramatic idiot like Andrew says he is; Neil's mouth falls right open, his gaze snapping to Andrew's eyes, shining with mirth. It's been ages since he's been asked that question. Any scathing retort or excuse burns up in his throat as he closes his mouth, and all he can do is nod, soaking up the nostalgia and fully knowing he's being played.

Realistically though, he knew it would end up like this. Andrew may not know how to broach the subject yet, but they're both antsy to get it out of the way.

Maybe a drive is what they need...

Andrew is forever a smug shit about things though, and the contentment flows from him as he says, "I need to hear it."

Neil laughs through his disbelief, and takes Andrew's hand when it's offered. He holds in his groan as he stretches, and Andrew's hand tightens around Neil's cane. But he doesn't offer it; probably for the best right then. Their moods are precarious things, set alight by the smallest things.

Yet, the word comes easy, and that's no surprise to either of them. "Yes."

\--

Neil doesn't ask where they're going at nine o'clock at night; he never asked in the past, since it was usually one of two options. Either Andrew will drive them aimlessly up and down the highways until his head is cleared or they pull over, or Andrew will pick a random destination. A goal. A deadline.

He sees Andrew punch something into the GPS, so he guesses it's the latter. And then they're off into the dark, down alternate routes and missed exits, with Andrew weaving in and out of traffic until he ultimately rights himself again.

It's silent.

To say it's completely without tension would be a lie, but Neil is comfortable. He likes watching Andrew drive, seeing his hands curl over the steering wheel whenever he makes a particularly fast transition, or when his mind takes a turn through the conversation he's undoubtedly having in his head. Neil smiles as he turns away; Andrew is so good at building scenarios in his head, pulling from past expectations and experience, with a dose of pessimism he tries to disguise as neutrality.

He has to know it will all unravel and sway in unpredictability at some points, but it's a comfort all the same.

So Neil lets him have the alone time, and lets himself be whisked away into the dead of night. He sort of wants to come back down this way at some point; it's a weird route. They pass through heavily lit up bridges, down dark offroads when Andrew feels like detouring off an exit. Old motels mix with gas stations and bars. Each desolate, empty shell of buildings are set to the soundtrack of the revving engine. As it gets later, the cars around them begin to disappear, veering off to their own destinations.

It's overly familiar, but he feels safe from this vantage point. He's not running, he's sightseeing. The streetlights above ghost over the car's interior when they speed through suburbia and back onto the freeway, and the sounds of blaring horns end up overrun when it starts to rain.

He's like a fish in a tank, watching the water rush over them, and even some of the tension in Andrew's frame seems to be washed off. Neil looks at the clock, blinking in time with the windshield wipers since Andrew forgot to reset it last time their car was serviced. He reaches over carefully and presses on the dial of Andrew's watch, and it lights up with the time.

_10:30._

As if sensing the impending question of where the hell they're going, Andrew turns off the next exit. Neil wonders if he just happens to know the limits to Neil's patience, and timed the arrival accordingly. Neil wishes Andrew would stop trying to be cool, since Neil already thinks he is.

Andrew fishes into his coat pocket for an envelope, and a few blocks later, he pulls into a nearly empty parking lot.

Neil doesn't need to look at the tickets to know where they are. He turns his head, and through the water, his face feels the heat of a blue glow.

There's a giant tank of kelp and colored rocks on the side of the building, stretching up bright and shining. It's an artificial blue beacon in the blackness, aside from the flickering light of the box office a few feet away. The rest of the building lacks windows, encased in concrete. The rain is battering the ground at this point, and it makes the sidewalk around the liminal space appear slick and clear. It's an island, seemingly untouched and unwanted.

Neil adores places like this, so dull and unloved. They're just weird, but more than that, they're uncrowded. He wouldn't be surprised if the other three cars here belonged to the employees.

Even through the pelting rain, he can read the shoddy sign with a fish carved into it. "Twenty-four hour aquarium," he repeats, and then he pulls the tickets out. Sure enough, there's two, designed about as poorly as the building.

"It's the smallest aquarium in the state," Andrew adds, as if parroting whatever he read up online about it. He leaves the engine running. "Mainly used for research from the local college, that's where the funding comes from."

"So it's shitty," Neil adds with a grin. He doesn't exactly trust things open 24/7 to be any good.

"The shittiest," Andrew says with the click of his tongue. Then he turns to Neil, the first time since they've been in the car, and seems to like what he sees. It's probably the most unworthy attraction in the state too, but that's what makes Neil so excited. "But there will be fish. I made sure of that."

He doesn't doubt it. Andrew covers all his bases.

Neil's grin grows, and he makes a move to hop out of the car without care for an umbrella or a jacket. "That's all I need to know, should we—"

And then Neil remembers why they're here in the first place. His hand pauses on the door handle as he turns to Andrew, and the blond seems resigned to this too. Ah. Neil relaxes back in his seat, and tries to conjure up his earlier pettiness and frustration. It's been worn away slightly, and maybe that was the point. Of the drive, of the trip...

This isn't an attempt to distract Neil, or avoid their conversation from earlier, but...

When all is said and done, he wants Neil to be somewhere he enjoys. He wants to be there with him. And ultimately, spending time with Andrew this way tends to make them both question why they're being so stupid in the first place.

Neil stares down at the tickets. "Well? Are you ready?"

And Andrew knows Neil isn't referring to the aquarium. He leans forward and cuts the engine off finally, and then it's just them and the rain outside. Andrew chews on his words for a moment, then shrugs. "Almost," he says, and taps his head. Still thinking. At a certain point, Andrew has to know there's only so much of that he can do. And he must, because he raises his hand vaguely, gesturing to the collection of feelings he can't put in order or tie together neatly. He settles on: "I didn't want to be selfish."

Neil squints, flicks the door handle so the click carries through the car. And if that's really the root of the issue, or all of the issues, then Neil is still lost, because—

"I like when you are," he whispers, and Andrew's jaw clenches. It's hard for him to admit things like this, Neil understands. Both of them grew up on foundations of selfishness, of trying to look out for themselves only, and yet...

Their lives are full of hypocritical actions. Neil's not sure what Andrew's being so selfish about, if it's just his retirement or something else, but he doesn't mind or care. Andrew deserves to be selfish sometimes, to get what he wants and _ask_ Neil to support it.

"But I'll be honest, I have no idea how you've been selfish," Neil finishes his own thought, and it's wishful thinking to try and flesh this out in the car before heading inside. Alas, the poor fishies will have to bear witness.

"You'll see," Andrew concludes, and then he's throwing his door open and stepping out into the storm. The rain is so much louder outside of the car, but it's the opposite of grim. Briefly, Neil imagines running through it, but shakes off the silliness.

Andrew jogs around and opens the backdoor to grab Neil's cane and probably an umbrella. Neil tries not to grimace. Shockingly though, when Andrew opens Neil's door and crouches down to his eye level, he doesn't offer it to him. Instead, he taps Neil's legs with a near smirk, and Neil fixates on the droplets of water that drip down the side of Andrew's face. He thinks it's impossible for Andrew to look bad to him, even waterlogged, and he's glad. Andrew's smirk broadens at Neil's expression, and then he's tugging him by the hand. "Ready to run again, rabbit?"

It can't be blamed on mind reading, but the truth is all the more overwhelming and threatens to drown him more than the rain.

Andrew knows him too well.

Neil's grin pulls at his scars painfully as he jumps up, and for a brief moment, his legs don't wobble or strain. He feels fast, he feels young, and that's in no small part thanks to Andrew.

They take off with the sound of the car door slamming.

They still get soaked.

\--

"You remind me of a jellyfish," Neil says as he stares into the tiny tank. There's only a few baby jellies inside, a few spots of bright purple and pink blinking in the abyss. For some reason, they've always been Neil's favorite to look at. They look so soft and squishy, yet they'd be quite painful to mishandle.

"Enlighten me," Andrew replies, and Neil grins smugly at the exasperation in his tone.

_Isn't it obvious?_

"Pretty, but dangerous."

"You're the worst."

"You're the one who brought me here, you knew this would happen." Neil continues on the small hallway that leads out to the giant viewing tank. The aquarium _is_ tiny; there are about six sections, comprised of small to medium tanks of fish, crabs, seahorses, and jellyfish. It all leads into the center room, where the big tank is. That, at the very least, is impressive. Too bad people probably don't take the time to drop in and see it.

"I'm starting to regret this," Andrew says, peering into one of the shrimp tanks. He's looking, but it's as if he's not really seeing. Neil's expression falls at the far away tone, at the way Andrew's cogs turn and stall whenever it seems like he's about to say something.

Neil walks over to him after he finishes collecting his next souvenir coin at the penny machine. There's six in total around the aquarium, and he stuffs the last one in Andrew's jacket with the rest. It has a manta on it, but the aquarium doesn't have any.

It's oddly fitting anyways.

His hand finds Andrew's in his pocket and squeezes, knowing their hands will both come away smelling like coppery metal. But he wants to be touching Andrew when he instigates, when he provokes. Neil isn't great with this, but his touch has never failed him. As someone who doesn't accept it from everyone, Andrew can glean so much from a simple brush of Neil's fingertips.

Andrew tilts his head up at him, and Neil smiles. "When you retire after this season, we can go to a bigger one, with lots of jellyfish and touch pools. I heard there's a cool one in Lisbon."

He drops that and walks away, because according to Andrew, he's a bit devastating like that. This time, it's him who expects Andrew to follow. They're at the end of the line, after all. Neil has taken an ungodly amount of pictures of crabs, shrimp fights, and pregnant seahorses, and he refuses to go to the gift shop while there's still pent up thoughts between them.

He can't possibly get Andrew's genuine opinion on the mood rings or stuffed animals if they're both upset.

Neil shakes his head at himself as he walks into the tank room. No, that's not it at all. He wants Andrew to feel better, no matter how messy it has to be.

Neil looks up at the tank, at the eels and tiger sharks flitting through the plants. It takes up almost the entire wall, and as a result, there's carpeted bleachers behind him. Empty, dark. The water is the brightest thing in the room, with artificial lights streaming through the surface from above to replicate sunlight. One day, Neil thinks it might be fun to snorkel, but he's a terrible swimmer so Andrew will definitely have to come with, and getting him in the water will be no small feat.

He can try that post-retirement too.

Neil stands in front of the tank and shifts his weight around. They've only been walking for about an hour, but his legs are starting to feel sore, and he glares in the face of a giant bass that comes up to him.

_I'm sorry, it's not your fault._

He presses his hand to the glass and tries to pretend he's not leaning against it. He's refused his cane three times already, he's not about to stop now.

Slowly, Andrew takes his place by his side, cane in hand. He doesn't offer any help, but Neil can tell he wants to. Andrew is usually so still, so steady, yet in these moments he fidgets with the handle of the cane, twirling it in his palm.

They stand there comfortably for a while and watch the fish, until Andrew decides he's done waiting. "You don't care," he voices, and Neil flinches at the sound. It's so loud in the big room, offset by the gentle glug of the tank, but Neil doesn't need to wonder what Andrew means.

It can only be one thing, and already Neil's assumptions are proven partially true.

It's not an accusation, it's a request for the truth, completely bared.

"I don't," Neil confirms, and the least he could do is get that out of the way. After much deliberation, he doesn't doubt his own answer. He was devastated by his own retirement at the beginning, and he can get a little wistful about it, but..."Your game doesn't have anything to do with mine."

Andrew actually laughs at that. Neil likes to joke he has a supervillain laugh, it's low and deep, not quite carefree enough to be considered one. Neil likes it. "Oh Neil, it always had something to do with you."

"Don't you ‘ _always’_ me," Neil shoots back. They were teammates, partners, he gets it. But that's not what he means. "I'm not going to resent you if you stop playing Exy just because I can't."

"I never said you would," Andrew raises his voice, some of the anger bleeding back. It's as if the insinuation that he would ever think that about Neil is more insulting that the actual issue. Andrew shakes his head. "You're not the type."

"Then what is it?" Neil pleads, even though he knows Andrew hates it. It's one thing for something to be eating at Andrew, he would typically let Neil shoulder some of it. But Neil has nothing to grab onto, nothing to lift off his shoulders. He hates to ask, rather than give and take in their usual routine. Andrew has never been the straightforward type; Neil knows better than to ask direct questions that give Andrew nothing to navigate with.

It's unhelpful for both of them. But he can't help it when his mind is egging him on.

_Tell me._

And perhaps he's only at the point of asking because he knows Andrew actually _does_ want to tell him.

Andrew reaches for cigarettes he no longer smokes and glares at an eel when he realizes he's not twenty anymore.

"You look like an idiot at my games," he adds quietly, a moment later. "You're so happy to see me there."

Neil ignores the mocking tone Andrew puts behind it, it's a mechanism that no longer works. Neil smiles; he can't deny that and he never tried to. It was obvious, but he doesn't feel like pointing that out.

Andrew's moods can fluctuate at random. For someone who has never babied Neil in the past and who vowed he never would, he's sure gotten softer with age. Neil's feelings don't need protection, they're both aware. They've been harsh with each other plenty of times because they knew it would change nothing.

And yet when it comes to this, Andrew's main drive is to avoid Neil's sadness.

_You say I'm the mystery._

The impossible calculation, but Neil should know better at this point than to try to set Andrew's motivations to a formula. He's unpredictable, and free. He does not make sense and that's what Neil adores about him, because it all seems to fall into place at the end.

Andrew probably hates caring about this, Neil realizes. He should just be able to quit and let Neil figure out his own shit; but that hasn't been how they've worked in a long while.

Neil has to intervene with Andrew, and Andrew has to do the same with him.

"Of course I'm happy there, but that has more to do with you than the game at this point."

Andrew could churn butter for a living and Neil would probably think it was cool.

"Sap."

"Worry wart," Neil fires back, and enjoys the crease in Andrew's forehead that he gets for it. "I'm still failing to see how any of this is selfish? It seems like the exact opposite. You're disappointing me."

Andrew rolls his eyes. "What a shame," he says, and Neil half expects smoke to be blown in his face, or a hand to fly over his mouth to keep the truth at bay.

Neither of those things happen, and Neil gives his own ground. He leans into Andrew completely, and there's a sigh of relief that follows from having the support off his poor muscles. He should've worn better shoes.

Andrew doesn't budge, even as Neil knocks into him, and they watch the silhouette of a shark glide above their heads. Neil searches again for any lingering anger, and wonders when he got so bad at holding grudges.

"Are we still in a fight?" He asks in disbelief, and it's somewhat directed at himself. The words bounce off the tank and back in his face, offering no insight. Do they even fight anymore? Perhaps he's been spoiled, and he doesn't know what it means to fight. Surely, it can't feel this warm.

"Yes," Andrew answers, but he sounds tired and just as lazy about it.

"Why doesn't it feel like it then?"

"Because we both know how it ends."

Neil nods. "Ah, so our fights _are_ predictable."

Andrew turns his head to the side and doesn't mask his expression, as if to say _'you didn't know that already?'_

Neil rocks on his heels and winces when he finds that it's a bad idea. Andrew sets him right, and offers him the cane. Neil refuses, as he always does, and Andrew looks up at the sky for guidance.

"And how do all our fights end?" Neil asks. He's a sap, as Andrew said. He has to live up to it in these trying times.

Andrew lowers his head and regards Neil with an expression so complex, Neil wishes he could snap a picture. It's so frustrating, since it would be an absolute waste. All anyone would see is the exhaustion, the annoyance. They can't see the intricacies shining through, how thoroughly done Andrew is, but how he can't wait to indulge Neil anyways.

And then he answers, and the snapshot is as perfectly imperfect as Neil could wish for.

"With you sleeping next to me."

_That's right._

Neil's grin, though probably obnoxious, is subsequently ignored. Hmph.

Andrew turns to the tank, resolve taking over, and he nods once. "Fine."

Neil blinks. "Hm? Fine?"

"While we're at it then, let's talk about this," Andrew says, holding up the cane in Neil's line of sight. Where he can't avoid it.

Neil's grin falls into confusion and reluctance. Oh no, that's not what he wanted _at all_.

He moves to turn, just to be a shit, and Andrew stops him with a simple push towards the tank. Ugh.

"You say it's fine if we take it easy, but you won't even use this thing," Andrew accuses, and he taps the cane once against Neil's chest. It's barely a touch, but it stings. Neil's glare starts off strong, but it wanes and dies when he looks up to see the serious expression on Andrew's face. And all at once, it seems like the cane was a bigger deal than even he thought it was.

Andrew brings it back to his chest, twisting it in his hands as the words struggle to come out. All Neil can do is listen. "You'd rather stay five steps behind, lungs heaving. You don't ask me for help, you just choose to ignore it all rather than just lean on the fucking thing."

Again, the cane strikes the floor, and it doesn't bend or snap. It's sturdy. Of course it would be, Andrew bought it for him. It's the best.

He feels his resolve crumble, and what's left in his wake is the last drops of his defensiveness. "I don't—"

"You _do_ need it," Andrew snaps, a match striking. They both stop. Neil doesn't cry much, but the four words rock him back and forth, trapping shouts and denials in his throat. Andrew stares at him wide-eyed before he steps back; he gathers himself when he's taken it too far. Or, when he thinks he has. He's always giving it all away in the end, the desperation, the rage. Andrew sweeps a hand over his face, and that look is so novel, so unlike him, Neil gives in.

He stops trying to delude them both. He can't stand that look, the knowledge that Andrew is so concerned he can't handle it. And it's nothing compared to facing the mob, or Baltimore, or Ichirou, but that just goes to show how gone they both are.

Even with the most mundane, trivial things...

They want to spare each other the stress.

When he swallows, it's rough, like sandpaper. It's not about just him, and it's never been. Not since his twenties.

"Yeah..." Neil whispers, and Andrew freezes, staring a hole through him. Neil sticks his chin out, stubborn, so Andrew knows he's not just saying this because he's been backed into a corner, or to calm Andrew down. He wouldn't dream of that deception. "Yes, I know I do."

He's known for a while.

Even now as he wants to reach out for the cane, something stops him, and he babbles away, trying to make it all come together. "I sometimes don't want to admit it," he whispers. He thinks of sprinting across the court or jumping hurdles, he thinks of sparring with Matt and walking the track with Andrew. It's all so smooth and clear in his head, in his muscle memory. It's like he could take off like a shot at any moment. But..."I can't push myself anymore, like I used to. Like I _want_ to. I know I don't have to but—"

He stops, breathes, tries to remember where that was going. It's impossible to put all those contradictions and wrap them up together.

_I know I'm not weak but—_

_I know I'm still healing but—_

_It's not the end of the world but—_

"And I am getting better," Neil goes on, leaping bounds in his head he can no longer take on physically. He doesn't mean he's getting better healing wise, he's getting better accepting it. With therapy, with Andrew, his mindset is clearing and widening day by day. But he still has hiccups. This fucking cane is one of them. Andrew knew that, he tolerated it as long as he could, because he's always let Neil have the privilege of sorting it out on his own. But at a certain point, he couldn't stand by, it hurt him too. Neil bites his lip until it's frayed and red. "I just—"

There's a solid grip on the back of his neck within seconds, and Andrew's tone is only facts, only truth. "You are," he affirms, shaking Neil a little. "You are..."

Neil lets himself be guided forward, and doesn't look when the cane drops to the floor. Andrew doesn't hug him, just surrounds him so Neil can feel tethered somehow. It may be for his own sake as well. Andrew chews on the inside of his cheek, and Neil smiles ruefully at the floor. "But?"

"I worry," Andrew finally admits. He tightens his hold and glares out at some faraway place, then turns to glare at his blurry reflection in the tank. It's rare to hear it from his mouth, but not a rare emotion. Neil knows Andrew worries, it's just a matter of using his worries to get his way. That is what pisses Andrew off more than anything, and it's why he doesn't. Except in these rare moments. Now, Neil understands.

The tension and self-hatred disperses in Andrew's frame, and then he's sagging against Neil, no longer gripping his neck. Instead, he plays with the curls at his nape. "I have lots of worries."

_Yeah..._

Neil laughs weakly. "Ah, so the selfish request comes out?"

Gently, Andrew grabs Neil by the shoulders and pushes him away, holding him at arm's length, and follows through. He picks up the cane and holds it to Neil's chest, the first time he's touched it in weeks. Surprisingly, he doesn't burst into flames, and with Andrew's request, he's one step closer to peace. "Ease them for me."

There's no way to refuse that. He couldn't if he wanted to.

In the next moment, Neil's hand curls around the cane. It's light, strong. It's not so bad, he tries to reason. He can get used to it with time.

Time...something he has an abundance of now.

As if to hammer this home, Andrew says, "I'm going to retire, and we’re going to take it easy together."

_'So stop being stubborn, and just use the damn cane.'_

"Okay," he agrees quietly, and hopes Andrew hears the underlying promise. It will not be overnight. There will be frustration, reluctance. The weight in Neil's hand isn't one he's used to, it's not warm or comforting. But with time, it'll be another part of his routine, and regardless of how he feels, he'll try to reach for it.

Andrew nods as he watches Neil grab the handle, putting some of his weight on the cane _finally_. It's a relief actually, with how achey he feels, but Neil doesn't admit it.

He's sure Andrew can tell anyways.

With a huffy sigh, Andrew wraps his hand around Neil's free one, and guides him to the first bleacher to sit. And when Andrew is satisfied with their view, with the feeling of Neil in his arms, Neil tackles the last of it.

"I never said I wanted you to retire," Neil whispers, and claps when food rains down onto the fish. Someone from the night shift he assumes, and he hopes they haven't been listening. He can't imagine it's been entertaining. The fishes swarm around the food and fill up the tank from all sides, until all Neil can see are gills and scales. This is plenty satisfying, but he still wants to go to a bigger aquarium. Soon, they will.

Andrew hums. "I know."

"I never gave you any indication that I would be sad about it."

"That's true."

Neil raises his head, rolling his cheek into Andrew's shoulder. "Then why did it make you mad?"

Andrew throws him another disbelieving look, but his voice has been loosened, his body at ease. "I know you miss it," he says, and that's all there ever was to it.

Neil smiles, overcome with the war of emotions, and digs his face back into Andrew's chest.

"Think of it this way, now I won't ever have to miss you," Neil says into Andrew's skin, and leans into the vibration in Andrew's chest.

One good thing, replaced with another.

Andrew shakes his head, and spends the next hour with Neil right there, making their list of where they want to go and what they want to see for years to come.

When Neil starts babbling about airfare rates, Andrew ends their fantasy short.

"Neil, there's still the end of the season you know."

"Which you'll win!"

"Just watch the fish, junkie..."

He goes home with a plush shark the size of Andrew's head, and a seashell necklace for Andrew, which he demands be placed in a gift box.

On the note, he writes: _for Lisbon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! We'll see what happens after this, but thank you so much to those of you who take the time to read this fic and comment, it means the world to me and I can't wait to move towards the end of this story! I'm thinking there's only a few chapters left?? who knows? not me lol

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I'm having a really fun time with this fic but I will warn, I'm mostly winging it. Updates will be sporadic but hopefully not too far apart! I'm excited to share more ^^ 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3


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